


This Hill I will Die On

by LadyCroft_Undead19



Series: The System Multiverse [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Harry Potter, Character Bashing, Crossover, Gen, LATER, Not Serious, Original Character-centric, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Smart Harry, Transmigration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCroft_Undead19/pseuds/LadyCroft_Undead19
Summary: All men are created equal.That is what we are told from a young age. No matter our skin color, no matter our gender, no matter our hair or eye color, we are all equal.We are taught this around the same time that we instinctively know that this is not true.All men are not created equal.And Jamie knew that intimately.From a bastard son, to an aspiring actor, to a businessman founding his own clothing line, he had lived a full life.He had no desire for anything else but death.[Welcome, Player][A new Challenge has been issued][Transmigration in 3… 2… 1…]Unseen, unheard and unexisting several beings watched as a new storyline was written.
Series: The System Multiverse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693162
Comments: 95
Kudos: 328
Collections: Reincarnation and Transmigration





	1. And now I die

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [High Flight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875010) by [ThatOnePlatypus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOnePlatypus/pseuds/ThatOnePlatypus). 
  * Inspired by [Trading Yesterday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4542492) by [Shadowblayze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowblayze/pseuds/Shadowblayze). 



> Hello and welcome!  
> (Old readers of mine please don't kill me, I swear I am not sidetracking my WIPs)  
> I hope you have fun reading this little story idea I got, it's pretty... crazy. Crack-ish. Please don't take it very seriously.

# This Hill I will Die On

* * *

Guess this is the hill I will die on   
I woke up this morning put my suit and tie on

Walked down to the bus that I ride on  
The air felt so still  
I guess this is the hill

I guess this is the Will I will write on  
the back of this bill with my pen as my quill

and hope you'll still love me when I'm gone  
The air felt so still  
I guess this is the hill I will die on

"The Hill I will die on" by Alec Benjamin

* * *

Arc I - Recrudescence 

**Chapter One: And now I die**

All men are created equal.

That is what we are told from a young age. No matter our skin color, no matter our gender, no matter our hair or eye color, we are all equal.

We are taught this around the same time that we instinctively know that this is not true.

Not everyone is created equal, some are born to nothing and struggle everyday to stay alive and live to see the next.

Others are born with silver spoons in their mouths and do not lift a finger to make anything of themselves, their legacy a pause in the ambitious dreams of their ancestors.

Jamie A. Rose was unsure which one he was part of.

Born to a struggling waitress with too many mouths to feed and a man that struck gold early on in his career, he was uprooted from the breadline to a life of spotlights and cameras.

Many would believe him lucky, how many children born on the wrong side of the sheets got the opportunity to be acknowledged, after all.

But Jamie could never forget where he had started and where he suddenly found himself in. He floundered.

He didn’t belong.

To a child such thoughts hurt, they cut deep beneath the skin and burrowed down in the bones.

Furthermore… If he doesn’t belong here, then where?

Was he going to be sent away? Sent back? Would he see anyone familiar ever again?

Jamie did not know. And he feared. 

Afraid of both the question and answer, of all the possibilities his mind could conjure up and manifest itself in nightmares.

He feared.

So he faced it.

All the movies and cartoons and heroes in comic books said the same thing, “You’ve got to be brave”, “You've got to face your fears”, “Be a man”.

And Jamie listened. Jamie learned. Jamie tried.

He was five when he was brought to a big stone house where the man who took him from his mother said he was going to live from then on. Inside there was a woman with bright red lipstick and pale blond hair that told him she was now his new mother.

He was introduced to two boys, both older than him, both with curly blond hair and brown eyes - same as him - that were now his older brothers.

He was six when he first stepped foot inside the private academy his brothers also studied in and was told by the teacher that he was behind his peers on school work, that it was expected of him since he was different.

He had stood beside the woman now calling herself his mother as she smiled and cheerfully talked to this teacher who casually sneered down at him for something completely out of his control.

All men are _not_ created equal.

And Jamie knew that intimately.

So much so that he wore it as a badge of shame and honor for years until he finally decided to quit the fighting and move back to his hometown and settle down with a wife and his own children. A steady job for a not so steady person.

A company he had built from the ground up and a legacy to pass onto his descendants, a life lesson he himself hadn’t had.

As he laid here on his deathbed now, all of 86 years old and drugged up to the gills because his intestines had finally turned septic and it was impossible to even breathe without agonizing pain, Jamie thought back to all that he had lived through.

Was it a perfect idealistic life?

No.

Would Jamie go back and live it again?

No. What was done was done and now he was going to die and brush his hands of the whole deal. Let the youngsters pave their own way.

Would he wish for any other life?

A meaningless thought. What other life could he possibly live other than his own?

What if it was possible?

No. Dreams are for children and people with too much time on their hands.

Jamie was tired and old and sick.

From a bastard son, to an aspiring actor, to a businessman founding his own clothing line, he had lived a full life.

He had no desire for anything else but death.

He closed his eyes as his heart stuttered in his chest, beating slower and slower each time.

A last exhale.

A last thought.

_And now I die._

**[System activation sentence detected]**

**[Stand by for further Instructions]**

A blaze of colors exploded in front of his eyes. They swirled all around him faster and faster until they merged together in an all encompassing white and deprived him of all senses.

**[Welcome, Player]**

**[A new Challenge has been issued]**

**[Transmigration in 3… 2… 1…]**

Jamie opened his eyes for the first time to see the baby blue cloudless sky above, the thin swaying branches of a fig tree. Confused and startled and bewildered at this development.

Just seconds before, one Harry J. Potter had fallen out of it because of a broken branch, too small and too young to survive the impact with the ground.

Unseen, unheard and unexisting several beings watched as a new storyline was written.

Overhead the glowing orange letters spun around the observation device.

**[Main Quest: Fate is Set in Stone ]**


	2. Sucks to be Me

# This Hill I will Die On

* * *

Arc I - Recrudescence 

**Chapter Two: Sucks to be Me**

Looking up at the sky above him there was a moment of complete dissociation between his mind and his body.

He saw the sky in its perfect blue color, the vast expansion of atmosphere that stretched to all the corners of the world, and he focused on it with the intensity of a blazing inferno.

His thoughts rushed past him like leaves blown by harsh winds.

Where am I? 

What’s going on? 

What is this? 

Why am I not dead? 

Am I not dead? 

Is this Heaven or Hell or a weird type of Limbo? 

Was Limbo even real?

And then - with a jolt of all his nerves and brain cells firing up in sync - the pain hit.

His hands flew up to his head and he instinctively curled up in fetal position as his skull felt like it was split in half.

Moving only makes it worse, in hindsight that should’ve been obvious, and his back aches all the way down to his bones. His spine cracks in places as it curves.

Tears spring to his eyes unbidden and run down his cheeks in warm rivers, they distort his vision and turn the world around him in shapeless blurs of color. Jamie couldn’t remember the last time that he cried as hard as he was crying.

Despite his tumor turning his intestines into mush and having struggled with the pain of said process for a year and a half before finally kicking the bucket, he had been under heavy painkillers the whole while.

So… Pain wasn’t unfamiliar. But it wasn’t a welcome presence either.

The feeling was too intense. As if the body had never experienced something like it. Which was ridiculous…

Until it wasn’t.

Jamie managed to roll over on his stomach, still clutching his aching head, and got his knees under him to awkwardly kneel on the ground instead of laying in it.

He hiccups out a sob and the sound catches in his ear as wrong.

It was the wrong pitch. It was the wrong volume. It was wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

Jamie uses one of his hands to wipe at his eyes, bringing the world back into focus, and then stares at it.

It was a small, pudgy fingered hand. Gone were the calluses from sailing, the scars from his various stunts, the age from all of his years.

This was a child’s hand.

If his heart wasn’t doing its best impression of an oncoming heart attack, Jamie would eat a hat.

What the hell is going on?!?

**[Greetings Player]**

What the fuck?!?

There are words glowing before his eyes, translucent and in a strong orange color, but he can hear a flat mechanic voice reading them out-loud, something he isn’t sure whether to pray he’s the only one hearing it or that it’s actually audible for the world at large and not just in his head.

Which would make me feel crazier than I already am?

**[System is now fully operational]**

**[Would you like to learn more about the System?]**

The words remained floating in the air, neither moving or fading despite me being unable to do anything other than staring at them.

What the hell was he even supposed to react like?

Running around in circles and screaming about floating words and another voice in his head sure sounded like a straightway ticket to the nearest asylum, though that was probably the truest reaction anyone should have in a situation such as this.

The words were still there.

Well, if nothing else, this hallucination sure is persistent.

...Should I be concerned that I’m not even hyperventilating at the thought of having hallucinations?

Aha, but weren’t dying dreams a thing? There was still hope that this was all just some really realistic dream.

~~(It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. He knew, deep down, that he had already died. He had passed over to whatever existed beyond life and had been ripped away from it. He knew. He knew. _He knew._ He wished he didn’t.) ~~

_‘Yes, I want to know more about the System,’_ I think to myself.

**[The System is here to provide you information for the duration of the Challenge]**

**[The System will prevent any damage or alterations done to the memory of the Player, as well as keeping all thoughts and memories hidden from outsiders]**

**[To ask assistance from the System the Player must clarify that information they wish to learn or require]**

**[Example, System tell me what day it is today?]**

**[The System would also like to advise the Player to be extremely specific when asking for assistance, vague questions may lead to an overload of information that the Player’s brain patterns may not withstand]**

I stared as the strings of words started popping up and the same flat voice read them aloud.

This had to be some joke, right?

There was no way that this was real. No way.

But first things first.

 _‘System, what is the Challenge?’_ That word caught my eye and wouldn’t stop bugging me.

**[The Challenge is the Player’s Quest. The Player must conclusively finish their Quest in order to be released from the Challenge]**

Released from the Challenge?

What does that mean? That… That I couldn’t _leave_ the Challenge?

But what is it? A Quest? What?

I don’t understand what this is all supposed to mean. This made no sense.

 _‘System, what is my Quest?’_ Hopefully this would clear something.

**[The Player’s Quest is “Fate is Set in Stone”]**

That answers absolutely nothing.

Fate is set in stone? What a joke. Fate doesn’t exist.

There’s no benevolent higher power controlling your every move or influencing the world around you for certain things to happen. You made your own decisions and dealt with the consequences of them. This was all there was to it.

Fate?

Don’t make me laugh.

_‘System, why was I chosen for the Challenge?’_

Because, at the end of the day, _something_ had to have set me apart from the other billions of people on the Planet Earth.

**[The Player was chosen based on their compatibility with the Host Body and desired starter personality]**

Compatibility with the ‘Host Body’?

I looked down at the small, childish hands that I now had. Wrinkless fingers that bore no scars of long hours working on building calluses so that stunts would stop splitting my skin open.

Of summers spent sailing on sapphire seas and clear skies. Of all the years and years that I had lived through.

This wasn’t just a ‘reset’ so to speak, and more of a complete overhaul of my own self.

This wasn’t me. This wasn’t my body.

‘Host Body’.

Was this child even conscious when they were torn from their body? Was there someone freaking out just about now, saying that they are a child trapped in a different body?

I’d worry about it being my body, but I doubted that they’d live for more than thirty minutes before it expired.

Another thing in the floating words needed clarification.

_‘System, what do you mean “starter personality”?’_

**[The Player’s soul and mind are directly connected to the Host Body, your actions and training will reflect on this body.]**

**[The Player will also be faced with choices throughout the Challenge that will test your resolve]**

So they expect me to change.

A reasonable enough assumption given that they are making an old man possess - and it must be considered possession, even if it was entirely accidental and unwilling on my part - a small child.

But such an assumption was forgetting one simple detail.

I can be a stubborn old son of a bitch. And I would gladly show whoever got me stuck in this situation just where they could shove it.

“Harry? Are you out here? Oh, where did that boy go?” An old woman’s voice interrupts me as I go to ask more questions.

I look to where the sound came from and watch as several cats - and they were very weird looking cats, a mix between normal looking cats and tiny lions - jump over a wall and turn to stare at me.

Then they start meowing. In unison.

Uhh… I can’t be the only person who sees that that’s not normal cat behavior, right?

 _‘System, what are those?’_ It seems like a very reasonable and valid question to ask.

**[They are a mix breed between kneazles and regular house-cats. Though they may resemble less their magical sires, their intelligence remains intact]**

…I… I have several new questions.

And kneazles? Weren’t those what the magical cats in the Harry Potter books were called?

…

Something akin to a chilling premonition brushed the back of my mind and slid down my spine.

 _‘System,’_ I began, dread already pooling in my gut, _‘Who did my Host Body belong to?’_

**[The Player’s Host Body belonged to one Harry James Potter, also known as The-Boy-Who-Lived]**

There was really only one possible reaction to that information.

I cursed.

 _Loudly_.

“Fuck.”

* * *

The old woman, Mrs. Figg - a squib employed by Dumbledore to keep an eye on me, if my spotty knowledge of the novel was correct - wasn’t very amused by “my” recent actions.

Only one of which could arguably be called “mine”, namely the cursing. I had indeed cursed, but - to be fair here - I was a grown man and saying one little curse word is probably the lightest of my sins.

The other action that displeased Mrs. Figg - and should not, _could not_ , be considered my fault - was the fact that “Harry” had been climbing trees instead of sitting quietly on the sofa with the cats as the old woman had told him to.

Obviously Little Harry was naturally a rascal that didn’t know how to listen to their elders.

Good for the kid.

 _Eh…_ But I guess that not listening to his elders directly led him to fall off a tree - which was why my back and head were hurting that badly, I even had a large bump as evidence of “my” crime - and being possessed by me.

So, in light of those consequences, perhaps not _not_ listening to his elders would’ve been the best choice.

Oh, well, no use crying over spilled milk. It didn’t look like I’d be leaving this body any time soon.

Which created a mess of intelligible screaming in my mind.

This body was that of Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, the future “savior” of Magical Britain. 

What ancient god did I offend in my past life to deserve this?

You could say that, ignoring the crazy murderer out for my blood and his crazy fanatics, my life wouldn’t be too bad. I had magic, I could use a wand and mess around with the laws of physics and shit.

But the murderer and his fanatics wishing to kill me were a very, _very_ , **_very_ **big con that far outweighed all the pros in this situation.

My mind trying to process this new information and trying to reorient itself gave the old woman the opportunity to lead my numb and dissociating self back to her house with no fuss.

I sat on the living room floor and tried to make sense of what I had just learnt.

It was… hard.

It was one thing to read the novel, watch the movies, and make your opinion about the events and how the characters should’ve reacted. It was another thing entirely to actually be in said character’s shoes and now facing the very real possibility that they’ll have to play along with the narration.

Because here was the cincher of the situation, Harry Potter was a tool.

A tool and a pawn.

My biggest dislike about the whole series, both novel and cinematic, was that Harry Potter just seemed… nonchalant about his situation. He went from being a regular - if odd - child to learn he is magical, he then enters Hogwarts and is immediately enthralled by the adventures and glamour that constantly bring him center stage in everything… and he just… shrugs and accepts it?

He killed a possessed teacher in Year One, he was… eleven? Yeah, First years are eleven years old.

And he was fine afterwards?

Nonsense.

But I couldn’t fault Harry entirely, he was used by pretty much everyone around him, the biggest players being Dumbledore and the Ministry.

Ugh, I hated Dumbledore.

I genuinely dislike his character. His involvement with Grindelwald and his delay in fighting him, to sitting on who knows how many titles and jobs and still being the Headmaster of a school, and then the whole mess with the prophecy.

I wish I had pen and paper right now, because I just knew that I would need to make a list of questions to ask the System.

There were a lot of blanks in my memory about the events that happened, but one thing I remembered clearly, Harry Potter was meant to die fighting Voldemort because there was a soul piece inside his lightning bolt scar.

Goddammit, as if my life couldn’t be any less complicated than a Picasso painting.

I took a deep breath as I clenched my fists to try and focus back on the present.

I needed a plan of action. I needed information. And I needed to know exactly what I could safely mess around with.

Firstly, I was not about to head into this magical world completely unprepared for it. What happened to Harry was very much like tossing a child to the wolves, and I won't let that happen to me.

I wasn’t a child and I wouldn’t let myself be demeaned into being treated like one.

I pondered flying under the radar and not making many waves, but I knew myself. I could be patient. But my patience had limits, and the magical world was going to tap-dance on every last one of my nerves before I hit fifteen.

But it wasn’t like I could just catch a bus and tour the magical stores, I knew the place had a name but it escaped me, I seriously needed to get some sort of journal or guidebook done. Not only was Harry Potter isolated in the muggle world, he would also be mobbed were he to step foot into the magical side of it.

Ugh, my head hurts. I really don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here. Why was I here?

If I found out that my soul had drawn the short straw in some rigged bet whilst heading to Hell - or Heaven, he honestly couldn’t tell which place he was headed when he died, he was a good man, but being good doesn’t mean he was _saintly_ \- he was going to have words with whoever played him.

“Oh, my!” The old woman suddenly speaks up just as a car loudly backfires. “Those must be your relatives, back from their trip,” She says.

I am unsure if she’s speaking to me, so I stay silent.

My relatives? She must mean…

My expression sours.

The _Dursleys_.

...Oh, I hated my life so much right now.

* * *

Neither the books nor the movies served the Dursleys justice.

They were much more horrifically ugly and fat than I could’ve imagined. Vernon Dursley was so fat that I doubted he could see his own feet, made me wonder how he managed to tie his shoes, and surely struggled to get behind the wheel of his car.

The mousy blond hair gelled to the side and the thick mustache under his nose looked like they had come straight from a 1940s “middle-class, middle-age gentleman” advertisement. And it fell short of the goal because of how ugly and fat he was.

Petunia Dursley was, in complete opposition to her husband, stick thin and as tall as a corn stalk. She had brown hair and a long face, she entered the home of Mrs. Figg to “come pick me up” with pursed lips and visible distaste.

The fact that these two procreated was both bloodcurdling and mind boggling.

“Let’s go, Boy. My little Duddykins needs his afternoon snack and I shan’t let him go hungry because of you,” Petunia sneers at me, pulling me out of the house by a claw-like hand on my forearm.

Number 4 Privet Drive wasn’t very far from Mrs. Figg’s house, which was understandable given her position as my watcher. It was an ordinary house with a perfect garden and green trimmed grass, from the outside it looked like the poster-child of a home-design magazine.

The houses surrounding it were exactly the same, and that alone gave me hives.

When it was time for me to buy my own house, I specifically requested fixer-upper offers because I wanted to build it to be unique to me. Even when my wife and I married and we had kids we merely upgraded the house and not just bought a newer model of it.

It was in a good neighborhood, there was both privacy and comfort in its immediate surroundings, and years of memories built into its very foundation.

Looking at this house, my heart clenched in pain.

The more I witnessed and experienced in this body, the realer the situation got. And the realer the situation got, the more panic and anxiety I felt inside of my mind.

I was stuck in a child’s body, a child that was the main character in a fictional work - I cannot stress that part enough, unsure if it either confirms my prayers that this is all a rather complicated dying dream, or a brand new reality of madness - and the only way for me to leave it was… Well…

Dying, I guessed.

Or completing the Challenge.

Fate is Set in Stone.

The prophecy…?

“Mummy!” A shrieking wail came from the living-room as soon as the front door opened, the sound so loud that my ears immediately started ringing.

Ow.

“Duddykins! Mummy is back, what is wrong baby?” Petunia drops my arm as if it is a dirty sock and hurries to the living-room.

“I’m hungry!” The shrieking voice yells.

I stand in the middle of the hall unsure of where I’m supposed to go now. My eyes catch sight of the door of the cupboard under the stairs.

The first thing we learn about Harry Potter’s childhood is that he slept in there until he was eleven years old.

…

Yeah, I wasn’t going to live who-knows-how-many years in there when there was a perfectly normal room upstairs, not in use by anyone except Dudley’s broken toys.

“Boy!” A loud voice suddenly shouted at me.

I looked away from the cupboard to stare up at Vernon, the blond walrus of a man was standing at the living-room’s doorway and seemed enraged at the sight of me.

“What do you think you are doing?!” Vernon spews as he speaks.

Harry Potter, the small child, might’ve cringed and curled in on himself. Afraid of Vernon and his reactions, of any punishment he might incur if he took one step in the wrong direction.

I wasn’t Harry Potter.

Despite me being barely mid-tight in height and probably weighing thirty kilograms soaking wet, and reasonably apprehensive of what a physical altercation could do to this body, I was - in soul and mind - an adult.

Specifically, I was an adult that had made his initial fortune out of dangerous stunt work and living off adrenaline inducing crazy-ass ideas.

I thrived when my blood started pumping and beat a staccato of drums in my ears.

I wasn’t scared of this man. I doubted he would kill me, if only because of the repercussions of such actions, both magical and regular.

Oh, sure, he might hit me, lock me in the cupboard and deprive me of food. But he would not permanently maim me or starve me to death, of _that_ I was certain.

I’ll admit, that knowledge made me bold.

So I answered in kind.

“I am standing,” I told him with the tone of voice of someone commenting on the weather.

Vernon’s face reddened. “You! You! Boy, who do you think you’re talking to?!” He yells.

“To you,” I answer. “Uncle,” I add, saddened about that fact.

I have to be thankful that, biologically speaking, I am not related to _his_ genes. But thinking of Petunia, I must also be thankful that I took after ‘my’ father’s side of the family.

But… I was going to have to question more about the genetics as a whole because Harry Potter was basically blind without glasses but I could see perfectly fine. So perhaps the eyesight deteriorates later?

“You! Do you want to be locked in your cupboard until next month?!” Vernon takes one step towards me, his gigantic belly trembling - and someone needs to give that belt factory an award, they truly do make quality items - with each movement of his body.

If Vernon is expecting me to take a step back and cower before his ‘anger’, he’s sadly going to be disappointed.

I look up at him placidly, unafraid and quietly defiant.

That confidence probably pisses off Vernon more than anything. He strikes out to grab me by the shirt and jostles me, screaming in my face, “Who do you think you are?! Uh?! We bring you into this home out of the goodness of our hearts, and this is how you respond?! With this disrespect?!”

My feet dangle off the ground - I seriously hate my lack of height right now - and being shook is uncomfortable, but not immediately life-threatening. My heart is speeding up and adrenaline is spiking up but I am not afraid.

I am not afraid and I _will not_ be afraid.

I grin at the man holding me by a meaty fist, an expression that is utterly foreign in the child’s face, and speak cheerfully:

“I’m Jamie, who else would I be?”

I am not Harry James Potter. I will not be Harry James Potter.

My name is Jamie A. Rose. And I will be no one else _but_ Jamie A. Rose.

I might be stuck in this body but would not be stuck in a wretched situation. Not know any magic? The System said that it would answer any questions I had. The future that awaited me? I could think of a few plans to cook up. Voldemort and his fanatics? Well… Knowing their future actions and their plans would help me avoid the pitfalls of the original Harry Potter.

Fate is Set in Stone?

My grin widens, baby teeth gleaming like a toothy piranha, and my eyes sharpen.

Stone is by no means invincible. It can crumble, be crushed, and erased by the elements.

If my ‘Fate’ is set in stone, well… Then we just have to destroy that stone.

* * *

The cupboard wasn’t very big but because of my small size it was comfortably sized for me still.

The cot I was currently sitting on wasn’t uncomfortable either. There was a grey-ish blanket over it that was slightly dirty and dusty but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t live with.

The one thing that bothered me the most were the little spiders I could spy in the corner, my new neighbors. I wasn’t afraid of spiders, but I’d be lying and said I was comfortable with them.

I’d just have to get a container or something to move them outside another day. As much as I appreciated their duty of eating other household pests, such as flies, I really wanted my ‘bedroom’ to be creepy-crawly-free.

It was… late afternoon? It was difficult to tell time from inside the cupboard, and the door was locked so it wasn’t like I could open it to take a peek at the windows.

Not that it really mattered, anyway, I was content with my peace and quiet and not having to deal with the screeching hag and her shrieking toddler, even if their noises still reached me.

My fingers prodded my cheek, it was a bit swollen but that was about it. As I had assumed, Vernon would hit me but nothing serious. I had received worse than a slap by a school-teacher, and they used _canes_ to discipline students, not a beefy hand.

Vernon had strength, I’d give him that. But he was minimally smart to understand the ramifications of harming me - a child that would require medical attention - should his anger get out of hand.

Had I been a teenager, I was certain I’d have gotten a punch or two, or three, but I was three years old - and wasn’t that a shock, I hadn’t realized I was that young in body - and a slap was the most he could give me.

Petunia had screamed at him when he had done so, though. I hadn’t cried - though my eyes teared up instinctively - or made a sound beyond a startled ‘ow’, and the woman had offered no comfort, but she’d stuffed me in the cupboard and admonished the man for hitting me. Hushedly telling him about what would happen if those freaks came and saw him bruised, or worse.

I would most certainly not be telling them that my only watcher Mrs Figg reported to a man that honestly would not give two shits about the state of me so long as I remained alive to enter Hogwarts at age eleven.

Oh, how pitiful it was that Harry Potter wouldn’t be the one to arrive come September 1991. His “Golden Boy” was gone and the man’s plans would fall through.

Speaking of plans…

 _‘System, can children under eleven use magic?’_ I asked it.

**[Magical children under the age of eleven often perform what is called ‘Accidental Magic’, an instinctive type of reactionary magic]**

Okay, not exactly what I was asking about, but it sort of answers it.

 _‘System, can Accidental Magic be… controlled?’_ Was that the most accurate word? Trained? Taught? I guessed controlled is the closest word to what I want answered.

**[Yes. All magic can be controlled through Intent, though it taxes the body]**

**[Accidental Magic are wild and unrestrained spurts of magic that a child may release in response to stress or with a focused intent towards a goal]**

In response to stress or with a focused intent towards a goal.

So accidental magic could be used by a child to defend themselves in a fight-or-flight situation.

Or directed towards a goal if it is wanted strongly enough.

I could work with that.

 _‘System, is magic monitored?’_ I asked. I remember, _very_ vaguely, that students couldn’t use magic at home and authorities would know if it was used.

**[The Ministry of Magic monitors use of underage magic through the Trace placed on wands, accidental magic is noted down but in the home of muggleborn children it is regularly ignored. The Ministry will only intervene if it is detected in public places]**

So… I could probably get away with practicing magic here because it would be considered accidental magic?

But wait… Wands.

All magical people used wands to do magic. But only after eleven. Ah, I guessed it all came back to the ‘taxes the body’ part of accidental magic.

Hmm…

Does all magic require a wand?

 _‘System, are there magical subjects that do not require a wand?’_ I ask it.

**[Wandless magic subjects include: Ancient Runes; Arithmancy; Astronomy; Divination; History of Magic; Care of Magical Creatures; Potions; Herbology; Muggle Studies; Ancient Studies; Magic Theory; Magical Law and Politics; Spirituality; Magical Foreign Languages and Culture; Rituals and Rites; Ha-]**

_‘Stop!’_ I yell in my mind, covering my ears as the mechanical voice starts going on and on and on about all the wandless subjects.

The System goes quiet.

There’s the beginnings of a migraine in the back of my eyes and I sigh.

Well… The System _did_ warn me to be specific when asking questions… I just hadn’t thought that that question required further specification.

But, in hindsight, it’s understandable that so many subject matters would require you to wave a wand around.

 _‘System,’_ I hesitantly call it up again. _‘Are you able to teach me any of those subjects?’_

The System hands me information, can it do so in way of lessons? Or do I need to constantly ask specific questions in order to learn about it?

**[The System will provide the Player with theoretical knowledge by prompt of questions, but will directly impart practical knowledge]**

**[However, the Player must be aware that practical knowledge requires physical practice to be successful]**

So… I must ask questions if I want to know the theory behind it. But if I ask to know how to do something, I will just know how to do it? Kind of ‘System, how do I pick a lock?’ that sort of question?

Ah, but that’s where the physical practice comes from, just because I know how to do it, doesn’t mean that I am able to do it.

I can work with that.

The theory side of things was something I was mostly enthused about, but I guess knowing how to do something means that I’ll have a list of questions to ask, thus the prompting of information from the System.

It’s… Convenient.

Especially considering who this body marks me as. Speaking of which…

 _‘System,’_ I ask. _‘Does anyone know about Voldemort’s Horcruxes?’_

**[Currently, Albus Dumbledore is aware of the existence of one horcrux]**

**[Horace Slughorn is aware of the possibility of Voldemort having made a horcrux]**

**[Regulus Black knew of one horcrux]**

Regulus Black… He was… The Godfather’s brother? He died switching out the necklace one.

_‘System, where are the horcruxes now?’_

**[The Diary is hidden in the Secret Room in Malfoy Manor]**

**[The Locket is inside a drawer of the stationary desk in the drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place]**

**[The Diadem is on a bust inside of the Room of Requirements in Hogwarts]**

**[The Gaunt Ring is hidden under the floorboards of the Gaunt Shack]**

**[The Hufflepuff’s Cup is inside Bellatrix Lestrange’s Bank Vault in Gringotts]**

**[The Player’s Curse Scar contains the last horcrux Voldemort created]**

That’s six. So the snake isn’t one yet.

The Cup is off limits, not sure how I’m going to get inside a bank vault run by goblins.

The Diadem is at Hogwarts, so that’ll have to wait. Same with the one in 12 Grimmauld Place.

The Diary will go to Hogwarts as well, so I might have to nick that and get rid of it on the same day.

The Gaunt Ring is the only one that I could try and grab sooner but… Isn’t that the ring that curses Dumbledore almost to death?

Yeah… I’m going to wait that one out as well.

So, there’s reasonably no way that I can deal with the horcruxes yet.

I am three years old, that’s… eight years - or close to it - before the school letter arrives.

That’s plenty of time to learn as much as I can, I mean… that’s a year more than the school years at Hogwarts.

What do I need to learn first?

My eyes travel to the locked cupboard door.

Well… Don’t the Dursleys make me known to be the deviant kid of the neighborhood, always causing trouble and being evil and stuff?

Let’s give them something to actually complain about.

_‘System, how do I pick a lock?’_

* * *

It’s actually pretty eerie to be walking around a house on your tip-toes in the middle of the night.

I’d be freaking out if it was entirely silent too, but Vernon snores loud enough to resemble a chainsaw and I took gratitude in the fact that there was no way a light sleeper could share a bed with that man.

After a horrible migraine induced by the System shoving countless versions of lock-picking different types of locks - I was beginning to learn that I should be specific about _everything_ that I ask, regardless of how straightforward the question may seem at first - I had waited until everyone went to bed to try out my hand at controlled wandless magic.

It took me about four hours for the lock to open.

Not my most desired result, but the door was now open and I could reach the fridge, my most difficult challenge would be to lock the door back up again.

Once I exited the cupboard I waited to make sure no one had heard the lock click to finally step out.

Vernon’s loud snoring eased my fear of getting caught. Everyone was pretty much dead to the world.

I went to the kitchen and eased the door closed to make sure that no light would escape upstairs and slowly opened the fridge.

I wasn’t very picky about what I chose to eat, taking butter and some slices of ham and cheese to make myself a sandwich. I took some fruit and tried to pick up the milk bottle but it was heavy and made of glass.

I wasn’t going to try and accidentally break it, surely waking up the Dursleys and leading to my discovery.

No matter, I’d be able to do it someday.

I found the bread on the counter and used a handy-step ladder, surely ‘Duddykins’, to reach it. I made my sandwich and quickly made sure to place everything back where I had taken it from and swiftly erased the traces of my presence in the kitchen.

I opened the kitchen door again, just as slowly as I had closed it, and quickly placed the sandwich and the fruit on the cot. I’d eat it as soon as I had locked the door again.

There were two other rooms downstairs that I couldn’t immediately tell what they were.

Curiosity would be my downfall one of these days.

The door closest to the window was a pantry. But there were no windows and it was incredibly dark, so I couldn’t really see much beyond box shapes.

A disappointment until I found a flashlight or something that gave light but wouldn’t be noticeable.

The last door in the back of the house was the bathroom. Since it was faster for me to reach it without struggling, I just drank from the tap in the bidet using my hands to cup water to my mouth.

I kept an open ear about the running water being heard but, again, Vernon’s snoring drowns out pretty much any noise.

After drinking I dried my hands on the closest towel and made my way back to the cupboard, making sure that the door was closed just as I had first found it.

Taking one last look in the kitchen to be absolutely certain that there was nothing amiss, I finally climbed back in the cupboard and shut the door.

I flicked on the lamp, the light wouldn’t reach upstairs with the door closed, so it wasn’t a fear of mine.

I focused on the lock, visualizing the locking mechanism and wishing it to lock.

My stomach grumbled in hunger, reminding me of the fruit and sandwich I had beside me, but I didn’t satisfy it. Instead I used it to fuel my desire.

Once the door is locked I can eat, so I just need it to lock.

I glare at the mechanism.

_Lock, goddammit it!_

The lock twists back to its original position before I unlocked it.

I sit back with a sigh, relieved that it’d worked. My stomach grumbles again and this time I pick up the sandwich and start eating.

It tastes of momentary victory.

It’s not perfect, but it’s something. A little knot in the perfect string of events Dumbledore and the Dursleys had planned for me.

But there was a long way to go.

 _‘System, why is astronomy important to magicals?’_ I ask the System.

Dinner and a lesson, time management at its finest.

Eight years. I have eight years to break free of the mould people want to fit me into. Eight years to learn all that I can and prepare all that I can to fight back “Fate”.

Odds weren’t optimal. But that’s fine.

I don’t need a 100% guarantee that it’d work. I just needed a slim chance for it to work.

As long as there was a chance, there was a way to make it work.

And I was going to make it work.


	3. Changes Big and Small

# This Hill I will Die On

* * *

Arc I - Recrudescence

**Chapter Three: Changes Big and Small**

Being busy was definitely the one thing that keeps me sane these days.

I look out at the crowd of children I will share oxygen with for the next four years and I mentally start reciting the stars of the major constellations. I turned six this past July and would be joining Dudley in first grade at St. Gregory’s Primary School.

I was even unfortunate enough to share a classroom with him.

These last three years had been… trying.

I messed with the round glasses that were now my only way to see the world decently enough to not mistake Vernon with Arnold Schwarzenegger.

My eyesight had started to go to hell around my fourth birthday but I had kept quiet about it until Petunia noticed that I would sometimes bump into door frames.

So she’d taken me to an eye doctor to see what was wrong. I’d almost felt grateful of her when she suddenly said we weren’t looking to buy glasses just yet, and then took me to a supermarket and made me try out reading glasses there and then.

Cruel bint would get what was coming for her one of these days.

The Dursleys and I were, unsurprisingly, on archenemy terms with each other. After I turned five Petunia had started handing me chores to do, and I completed some but when she started piling more and more of them on me whilst Dudley got fatter and louder, I put my foot down.

A lesson I had learnt when I myself had been an actual child and my father had been adamant I play football along with my two half-brothers.

You could take a horse to the water but you could not force it to drink.

In the same vein, the Dursleys could very well just yell and shout at me to do some chore and I could passively, yet sternly, refuse to. Again, the worst they could do was lock me in my cupboard but after I had mastered the ability to lock and unlock the door that punishment stopped being little more than a reprieve from putting up with their annoying presence and letting me learn more from the System.

Also, with school coming up they could not hit me and leave marks, and I was - and the Dursleys _knew_ \- shameless enough to take off any piece of clothing to show bruises off to my future teachers.

I also did not hold my tongue, conversationally mentioning the cupboard and the hitting to anyone who spared me a word.

As it was, Petunia was already working on Vernon to move me up to the second bedroom just so that if - _when_ \- I told the teachers about the cupboard they could just claim it as a child’s exaggeration.

Dudley hadn’t been happy with this development and had attempted to ‘put me in my place’, which sadly hadn’t worked well for him since he first tried that with me a week after I had arrived in this world.

Like his father, Dudley had strength, but unlike his father, he was also very stupid.

Now, I would never be much of a wrestling champ or a boxer, but I knew from my profession as a stuntman where to hit and where _not_ to get hit - oh, the wonders of all the knowledge one picked up from doing various genres of movies - so, when Dudley had tried to be more than just an annoyance, the tables had turned on the boy. _Fast._

Sure, I had gotten hit by the father and Petunia was all for letting me starve for a few days for hurting her baby, but Dudley had had his first taste of defeat.

In a few days, I guessed that the Dudley Gang would form, and I would do my big reveal to this world as the ruffian who lived in Number 4 Privet Drive. They wanted a bad egg in the nest, they were going to _get_ a bad egg.

A bell rang symbolizing the start of classes, all the children started running inside.

Without taking cues from Petunia - who was busy trying to get a wailing Dudley to let go of her skirt - I walked inside and headed to where my name was written on the cubby for jackets.

I still found it odd at times to be referred to as ‘Harry’. I had corrected, many times, anyone who’d called me such - mostly just Mrs Figg - that I preferred to be called ‘Jamie’ instead of Harry.

The Dursleys only ever called me ‘Boy’ or ‘Freak’, so telling them my preference towards a given name was a moot point.

I counted myself lucky that ‘my’ middle name gave me an excuse to be called ‘Jamie’. Though it would raise eyebrows in the magical side of things before they shrugged and made up some story about me wanting to be just like my father.

I didn’t.

I had known, vaguely, that James Potter wasn’t… He wasn’t a great example to follow. He was a loving husband and a caring father I was sure, especially to try and fight off Voldemort without even a wand, but as a student in Hogwarts…

He was a bully.

And that reputation would bleed on the first impressions the teachers would have on me, which would be exacerbated by my choice to be called ‘Jamie’ instead of ‘Harry’. But what was I to do? That wasn’t my name! That wasn’t who I was!

I was Jamie and I loved being Jamie, there was no one else I wanted to be.

Anyways, that was a situation to deal with later on. Right now, my priorities lied in surviving primary school.

A woman stood on the doorway to the classroom with a smile as she waved the first graders into her classroom.

I stepped towards the door just as Petunia was entering the building more or less dragging a wailing Dudley inside.

There were other parents there with weeping children, but Dudley was all on a whole league of his own.

Adults and children alike stopping to see the spectacle.

I hurried inside the classroom before Petunia could make a comment about me or remembered my existence.

“Hello, love,” The teacher stopped me as I was entering the room. “What’s your name?”

“Harry James, but I prefer Jamie,” I answered her with a cute smile.

“Well, then, Jamie it is,” She smiles back, “ do you need help finding your seat?”

“No,” I shake my head. “They have name tags, like the cubbies, I’m probably the only Harry here, anyway.”

“My, do you already know how to read your name?” She looks pleased. 

“I can already read books,” I told her. “My name isn’t that hard. But could I change it to Jamie?” That was my big question.

The teacher thinks about it, “I’ll have to ask the headmistress but if the other teachers are okay with it, I don’t see why not.”

I nod, “Thank you, Miss…”

The teacher laughs, “My name is Miss Tully,” She answers.

“Thank you, Miss Tully,” I repeat before heading inside to find my seat.

As I thought, I was the only Harry in the classroom. Just out of curiosity I checked Dudley’s seat, he was off in the front of the classroom, between Piers Polkiss and Lucy Reynolds.

From reading the names, I immediately recognized the boy’s name as Dudley’s future best friend.

I sighed, guess my reminding Dudley that he’s not top fish in this little pond is going to happen sooner rather than later.

I didn’t really want to use magic in public mostly because _those_ incidents the Ministry paid attention to, and I really didn’t want them snooping around Surrey if only to keep Dumbledore from coming to come see me himself.

Or ‘coming to see me’ as in, contacting Mrs Figg to see what was going on more actively.

Curiosity satisfied - and Petunia was just entering the classroom with the still crying Dudley - I sat at my desk and put the small backpack the Dursleys had been forced to get me - at a second-hand store, but still - for school on the back of my chair.

I had gotten the necessary school materials the list had requested, and it seemed to me like they didn’t want anyone to think they didn’t have money to afford simple, stationary store supplies.

I was wearing Dudley’s cast-offs though, something I would be rectifying soon. My attempts at resizing the clothing had been… mediocre. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, sometimes the clothing fell apart, other times it caught on fire.

So it was best to simply buy actual clothing, once we could finally walk back and forth from school I had plans to make myself some coin.

If this world worked generally like my old one did, then it meant that picking up trash or delivering newspapers could provide me with spare change to save up to buy things I needed.

Currently my list consists of clothing and writing supplies.

I had spent the last three years learning all of the theoretical side of things as much as I could, spending hours upon hours on topics and discussions with the System - and myself - and days if not weeks with horrible migraines from all the practical knowledge of things that would be useful for me to learn.

But now came the crux of the matter, I needed to actually practice with what I knew.

My main focus study points had been ancient runes and arithmancy, I had taken a shine to them.

And in my studies of the two I had asked one simple question to the System.

_‘System, can numbers be used to replace runes?’_ I asked.

Because the beauty of math - and I mean _advanced_ math and calculus - was that you could reduce anything down to numbers. Anything, even actions such as flipping cards on a table to reveal their other side and flipping them back again, could be simplified down to a number sequence.

So, if that was possible, was it also possible to use numbers as runes?

If a magical person saw a rune they’d be curious about what it was doing, maybe even guess - if they knew runes themselves - what was it that it was doing. But strings of numbers written on the edges of a page perhaps, or scratched on a door frame and no one should look much into it beyond an odd quirk.

But if they could be used as runes then they should have the same desired effect.

And runes could do so much!

Anything you could possibly do with a wand, it was possible to mimic that effect with runes. It might take longer and require a bit more preparation, but the end result would be the same.

All of the possibilities had me giddy with excitement. But for that, I needed both an answer and practice.

**[With sufficient knowledge and practice the Player may exchange runes with a desirable medium]**

And that was as much of a green light for me as I was going to get in order to start experimenting once my practical skill level matched my theoretical.

But for me to practice I needed materials, more than just pen and paper, I needed chalk and something to practice active runes on.

Should probably try to get an isolated place to practice in general too, not only magical things but also some light training to build muscle and endurance.

I had a feeling that it’d save my ass later if I could outrun and outlast most other kids.

“Alright class,” The teacher clapped to call for our attention, I noticed that Petunia was still in the classroom, standing by the wall nearest to the door, and wondered if she was going to escape whilst Dudley was distracted or if she was going to stand there all day.

Well, today was only a half day anyway, since today was only introductions and some assessment tests, perhaps.

“My name is Helga Tully, you will call me Miss Tully, alright?” The teacher tells us. “I am going to be your teacher for this year.”

She looks around the room. “Now, we’re gonna go around and introduce ourselves, just your name and what you most like and what you most dislike, simple!”

She points at the first student in the front row, “Let’s start here, hello, what’s your name?”

The little girl with the blond pigtails wilts like a flower, “Uh… I’m… I’m Beth,” She manages to stutter out.

“Hello, Beth, that is a pretty name. What do you most like, Beth?” The teacher smiles at her.

“I like… I like… Like to play… play with… with dolls,” She answers, red faced and practically curled up in her seat.

“Well, alright, that is a good thing to do,” The teacher finally decides to take pity on the girl because she moves along. “And who are you?”

“My name is Robert! I like cars!” The boy replies.

“Hello, Robert, nice to meet you!” She smiles.

And on and on this went until she reaches Dudley.

“And who might you be?” She’s clearly taken aback by just how round this child is, his short arms struggling to reach the end of the desk because of his belly getting in the way

“I’m Dudley Dursley,” He tells her. “I like cake!”

I bet you do.

“And what do you dislike?” She asks him.

“The freak!” He yells and points at me.

I blink leisurely at him before settling my head back in my arms as I await my turn.

“Now, now, Dudley,” The teacher frowns. “That’s not a nice thing to say to another person. Why would you call him that?”

Petunia suddenly clears her throat loudly. The teacher looks back at her unimpressed.

“My nephew is… he’s… disturbed,” Petunia tells her, pointing at me. “You’d do well to keep an eye on him.”

“Jamie?” She frowns. “Ma’am this child has done nothing wrong since entering my classroom and he was perfectly polite, I won’t have you being rude to children in this classroom. It would teach bad habits,” She pointedly tells Petunia, impressively sticking it to her and admonishing her of her son’s behavior.

Petunia’s face reddens. “I was merely warning you so you wouldn’t be surprised afterwards when he’s true colors show. And he’s called Harry.”

“Yes, he’s told me. Harry James, if I’m correct,” The teacher nods. “He’s also said that he prefers Jamie and I have no problem accommodating that preference.”

Petunia fights to keep a sneer off her face but she doesn’t say anything else, going back to ignoring me.

The teacher turns back to the class and continues the introductions, after some time she arrives at my desk. “And you are?” She asks, amused.

“I’m Harry James, but I go by Jamie,” I answer her with a grin, “I like to draw and I dislike spiders.”

The teacher nods with a forced shiver, “Yes, spiders are very creepy aren’t they? I get shivers all over!”

The classroom laughs at her words and she moves along to the next kid. I look at Petunia and see her look away from me just as I look up.

I am vaguely curious about what was it that made her stare at me, but in the end it probably wasn’t anything of importance.

I lay my head down on my crossed arms and wait for the day to end.

* * *

School was boring. Very, very boring.

Pulling your hair out in frustration kind of boring.

Which, to be fair, was to be expected given that it was the first grade, where kids were naturally learning the whole alphabet and how to string letters together to match words.

But it was so, so, so boring to me.

Miss Tully was a good teacher and she immediately noticed that I was leagues ahead of the other children, she started to bring in worksheets and exercises specifically made to test just where I was in terms of academics - and wouldn’t she be surprised to find out it up there with university undergraduates? - while the rest of the class was still figuring out how to read simple sentences.

She had brought this up with my Aunt who’d refused any special treatment be given to me and that ‘I needed to learn alongside the other normal children’.

To say that this comment lost any and all respect Miss Tully might’ve had for Petunia would be an understatement.

I believe Miss Tully had gone to the other teachers and the headmistress to discuss options for me, but they all crashed and burned when someone mentioned it to the Dursleys and they refused to let me skip grades or spend more time at the school learning individually with a teacher in their free time.

The Dursleys had laughed and patted themselves on the back, proud to be an inconvenience to me, until I pointed out that the less time I spent at the school, the more time they had to put up with me.

Vernon wasn’t happy for my comment and he blustered angrily about my disrespect but after cohabiting for three years they had pretty much realized that ‘respect’ and I would never get along.

Which was around the time Petunia and Vernon started spreading about the rumors and gossip about my parents.

It endlessly amused me how that was going to backfire on them some day.

As I had predicted Piers Polkiss and Dudley Dursley became inseparable, always talking and playing together in the playground, generally bullying other smaller children.

They had tried that with me, Dudley naturally assumed that just because there were now two of them that I was completely defenseless now, and were quickly corrected on that notion.

I had received my first detention and both boys had been sent to the nurse’s office for bloody lips and scratches.

When asked about what had happened several other bullied kids turned on Dudley and told them what had been going on. The beauty of being a bully and getting taken down was that, if witnessed, your victims would know you weren’t unbeatable. And the fear that kept them quiet would wane.

Dudley thought to become the big boss on the playground - around the first graders - and was beaten back within two weeks by the smaller and ‘scrawnier’ freak cousin of his.

Oh, Petunia had come down to the school and made a big fuss about it all being lies and slander against her precious ‘Duddykins’ but they weren’t just my words against him.

They were the words of seven other students and all collaborated the same version of events, no matter how differently the teachers asked the questions.

So, Dudley was due to be placed in time out and have recess access revoked once he returned to class.

Vernon had scolded me for acting out and causing trouble for his son and I had given him the same sharp toothy smile as I had before, my eyes icy from behind the poorly-matched lens.

I was sent to the cupboard for my insolence. The Dursleys were - willingly or not - starting to realize that they could not control me, keep me small and weak, powerless and quiet.

The next week Petunia had packed a lunch of Dudley and none for me, gave me a mocking smile and took us to school.

In a brilliant moment of pettiness I got rid of his lunchbox while he was distracted. It irked me that I was throwing away perfectly good food - and wishing that I had a bag of holding or something to save all of it unnoticed - but I could neither eat it all without someone seeing it, nor could I take it back with me.

Dudley had cried and wailed and rightfully blamed me for the act but my bag had been searched and no one had seen me carrying the lunchbox or eating anything. Indeed! They hadn’t seen me eating a mid-day snack or an after-lunch snack, my backpack didn’t even have a lunchbox in it!

“Oh, Aunt Petunia didn’t give me one,” I answered blithely. “Bad boys don’t get to eat, I guess.” I shrugged, playing the part of the resigned boy with a bright mind.

“He’s lying!” Dudley said.

I shrugged again, it didn’t really matter to me what Dudley and the Dursleys spread about me, in the end the school was starting to make an opinion about me. And it wasn’t an unfavorable one.

“Now, Dudley,” Miss Tully intervened before his crying got any screechier, “We can’t find your lunchbox, so we’re giving you a plain milk box and a packet of crackers.”

“No!” Dudley threw himself on the floor. “I don’t want crackers! I don’t want plain milk! I want my chocolates! I want my cakes! I want it back!”

Knowing what was inside the thing now, boy am I glad I threw it all out. Perhaps some god or deity will count this as a service to humanity, hampering Dudley’s childhood obesity.

Ah, if only I was that lucky.

Vernon and Petunia were furious about this incident. Which is when Vernon took it a step too far and broke my arm.

The sharp snap of bone was accompanied with my shout of pain and the Dursleys had had no time to feel vindicated when I unleashed holy magical hell on them.

The outside of the house remained untouched, but it looked as if a hurricane had passed through. Plates shattered, chairs overturned, couch pillows torn and bleeding fluff, paintings and picture frames tossed down to the ground.

Vernon took Dudley to stay with his aunt Marge for the weekend - lucky them that they harmed me on a friday - and Petunia had taken me to the ER.

She might’ve tried to explain the broken arm as a childhood accident whilst playing, but my pale skin - as a result from spending so much time shut inside the cupboard, ah wasn’t karma lovely? - bruised very easily.

And Vernon’s meaty hand-print coupled with the fracture normally associated with child abuse was harder to explain their way around.

So Petunia strung a story about my acting out and her husband losing her temper in an unprecedented manner. The nurses warned her that a note would be left on my medical file and if any similar injuries were ever reported again then an investigation would be launched.

I got a cast on my arm and a lollipop for my bravery in getting my bone reset in place for it to heal properly inside the cast.

That and a whispered advice that should I get hurt again I should go to the police or teachers.

When returning to Privet Drive, Petunia wouldn’t look me in the eye. I didn’t say a word to her either.

I was shut inside the cupboard as soon as we got there and got front row seats to the screaming match that erupted between the two adults.

I was moved to Dudley’s second bedroom sunday afternoon. The boy did not protest such a development.

My show of power - uncontrolled and unrestrained power - had left a mark on his view of me.

Throughout the whole ordeal I kept expecting Dumbledore to come knocking and try and change things back to how they were, but he never came.

_‘System,’_ I asked as I laid in the actual bed - not just a cot with a dirty blanket on it - and settled down to rest. _‘Does Dumbledore know about this incident with the broken arm?’_

**[Albus Dumbledore is currently engaged with matters pertaining to the Ministry, he has not yet been informed of what occurred by his watcher]**

So Mrs Figg hadn’t told him yet of my broken arm, but I could anticipate his intervention probably.

The System said that it would protect me from having my mind read and wiped. What else? Ah, altered!

The System will prevent my memories from being altered.

But not the Dursleys. Not anyone else.

I had no doubts that, even if an investigation was launched, nothing would ever come of it, simply because Dumbledore wanted me to continue living here with these people.

Why?

The question buzzed in the back of my mind and I tried to recall just why that was. But I came up blank, no usual I wasn’t the greatest fan of the work and hadn’t worked on this particular series.

My children had greatly enjoyed it though, so that’s where my knowledge came from. Second-hand and biased, probably.

_‘System, why does Dumbledore keep me with the Dursleys?’_ I ask it.

**[Albus Dumbledore set down blood wards connected to your blood around the Dursley’s property]**

**[So long as a blood related relative remains in this residence and you reside within it, no one wishing you harm will be able to step foot inside of it]**

Ah. Interesting.

But aren’t there better wards than that? Just because you don’t mean harm to someone doesn’t mean that you can’t hurt them. Indeed, what someone could do was come inside of the house and instruct the child to walk outside and then kill them outside.

And do they think one can live locked inside the house forever?

What about going to school? The wards don’t extend there. The kid could be run over while crossing any street!

It’s… It’s a flimsy excuse to keep a child trapped in this golden cage.

Because of my demeanor and general lack of fear or repercussions - something that was only possible because I was aware of just how much I could do and just what they couldn’t do - I had already changed things drastically.

Harry Potter spent ten years in the cupboard under the stairs, I had spent nearly three and that was it.

Harry Potter was a bullied little thing who stood under his cousin’s shadow, I beat Dudley every time he tried to push me around and the school thought I was a genius.

Petunia and Vernon tried to paint me as this ruffian child with bad manners but there was no proof of their words. They badmouthed my parents and were surprised when people scoffed behind their backs.

I had changed things. Just how much I had changed I couldn’t really be certain, not with the books starting when Harry is eleven and leaving his childhood a pretty bleak and blank picture.

But it would change further still.

I wanted clothes that fit me. Glasses I could see clearly out of. I wanted a place I could go to just be by myself and my thoughts. The ability to practice my magic and my interests.

I wanted to be out of this cage.

And I would be. One day.

I would walk out that door one last time and travel the world, maybe. Find a nice house to serve as a rest stop and just… go.

Anywhere, everywhere, just go where my feet took me. Ah, maybe I could get a boat again.

I loved sailing. My stepmother had started the tradition of sailing in the summer, and I had been hesitant to indulge in it, something that went against my early upbringing with my birth mother.

But I loved it. The sun shining down on me and the wind whooshing past my ears. The sound of the ropes straining and pulling on the sails as they filled with air.

Oh, how I wished I could be back there. Watching as the waves crash against the rocks on the coast, look down at their clear blue depths and seeing the schools of fishes swim around.

Join them in the water and dive down to the sandbanks and coral covered sea floor.

I fell asleep to the vision of blue-green oceans and a mediterranean skyline, of sun kissing skin and warmth effusing my very soul. The sky, a perfect cloudless expansion of blue and the wind rushing by, running cold fingers through my hair, was powerful yet soft.

My heart beat in my chest and yearned, and howled, and screamed for it to become reality.

Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

Unchained. Untethered. Unbound.

Just a soul drifting by the world with no destination and no limits.

~~(A drifting Cloud, whom cannot be bound.)~~

* * *

Going to school with an arm in a cast and Dudley acting like he’d die if he stood next to me tipped off the teachers that something had happened.

Whatever tale Petunia told them had made them back off if, and only if, the Dursleys agreed to let me spend two extra hours after school let out working on individual study with teachers from higher grades.

Such a simple and basic request in return for not making a huge mess of a fuss about my ‘accident’ was easily granted.

And that’s how I ended up spending less time at the Dursleys and getting tutored in french.

One of the fourth grade teachers had french relatives and went every summer to spend time with them, and since I was such a quick study when it came to academics, she decided that learning a second language would be a good idea.

It was, don’t get me wrong, and I enjoyed it greatly. It had just seemed to come out of nowhere, honestly.

I was also given different worksheets and exercises to do in class, Miss Tully had even bought me a fourth grade exam preparation book for me to complete during my free time.

It was nice.

After two months the cast came off and I threw myself in building up some muscle and strength back in it. Dudley had relaxed with the lack of any magical blow-ups and had increased his friend circle to four. 

But they never started any tormenting of me. Dudley because he wasn’t willing to poke the hornet’s nest and get stung, and the others because I was the adored student of all the teachers and ‘could do no wrong’ in their eyes.

So they left me alone and I left them alone.

As a consequence of this avoidance, several kids tended to sit around me so I’d act as a shield and deterrent for their attention.

That was amusing. They had tried befriending me once or twice but either got bored of my lack of child-like qualities or were just unnerved by it.

Despite this, when birthdays came around they made sure to invite me to go to their house - and the Dursleys were quickly noted to be either evasive about the offers or forced Dudley’s presence on the parents as well.

After the nth time Dudley tried to open the presents of the kid or broke something that wasn’t his, the parents just often decided to have the parties out in the open in good weather or did not open presents until all the guests left.

A sensible decision in my opinion.

Life went on leisurely and peaceful until my seventh birthday.

Dudley had had his birthday the month before and I had spent the day working through ‘homework’ and my own arithmancy exercises on Mrs Figg’s couch, and was still living the high of being the birthday boy with his new gadgets and shiny toys.

And then came my birthday and classmates and my teacher came by to give me presents, commenting on how surprised they were that there wasn’t a party going on.

Vernon’s ‘polite’ smile was akin to someone picking up after their dog’s indigestion, and Petunia looked like she had swallowed a whole lemon.

But _Dudley_. Oh man, Dudley was possessed.

“Why does he get presents?!” Dudley shrieked.

“Because it’s my birthday,” I answered him, ripping off the wrapping around a package. Inside there was a box with a pair of sweaters.

Brand new and ones that actually fit me.

I was very happy with them.

“But you’re…!” He stops.

I look at him, amused, “Am what? A freak? So what? It’s still my birthday.”

Not really, my actual birthday was August 8th, but I resigned myself to celebrating a bit earlier than what I was used to.

I set the box of sweaters down and pulled the next present closer to me, ripping off the wrapping paper out of that one too. It was a toy, a power-ranger and Dudley’s beady eyes zeroed in on it.

“I don’t have that one!” He screams and makes a grab at it.

I quickly pull it away, “Well, it’s not yours.”

Dudley’s face goes red and he screeches. “Give it to me!”

“No, it’s not yours. You have your own toys,” I told him.

Honestly, my pettiness of holding the toy - something I had no interest in either way - out of the baby whale’s hands was fully driven by spite.

“Boy, give Dudley his toy!” Vernon yells.

“It’s not his,” I reply. “I got it for my birthday so it is mine and not his.”

“Boy!” Vernon stands up from his chair and walks towards me. “You live her out of the goodness of our hearts, we feed and clothe you-”

“You took me in because you either had to or get some benefit from keeping me here. If you were able to get rid of me you’d have already done so. Feed me? Only because the school will notice I’m not taking a lunchbox. And clothe me? Dudley’s clothes? He’s twice my size and I swim in them, but _you_ don’t care. So why should _I_ care about whatever it is you think I owe you?” I interrupt him.

Vernon turns redder and redder with each word I say. He raises a hand.

“Ah! Are you going to hit me? Break another arm?!” I yell at him, jumping to my feet.

Vernon falters.

Green eyes grow cold like emeralds and the air around us is heavy with tension and electricity.

“You… You…-” Vernon blusters. “Go to your room! And don’t think of coming out until school starts!” He ends up yelling.

“Gladly!” I yell back, grabbing my presents and going upstairs. As I walk away I hear Petunia comfort Dudley that they’d buy him his own power-ranger and more.

I rolled my eyes. 

Horrible examples of human beings and horrifying examples of parenting. I was so done with them all.

I just wanted to leave.

Seven years old. Four years to go.

They couldn’t come fast enough.


	4. Wild Folk and Lilith's Child

# This Hill I will Die On

* * *

Arc I - Recrudescence

**Chapter Four: Wild Folk and Lilith’s Child**

What I loved about the System were the endless possibilities of things you could learn about.

What I hated about the System was its proponency to give me migraines whenever I asked a rather vague question or something that couldn’t be explained by using small words.

Questions like, “what is magic?”, “why is elf magic different?”, “why are wands important?”, many other questions had made me gain a healthy respect for books and learning normally.

Though some of my migraines had come from my own laziness and wish to impress teachers.

I’ll admit, I’ve gained a bit of a flair for dramatics.

It started by learning languages and having short conversations with teachers in them, then moving on to being able to write in those foreign languages and keeping my secrets, well… secrets.

Then it moved to instruments. In school we were learning how to play the recorder, a basic instrument everyone learnt how to play in school. And I had already endured my years of screech recorder days so I showed off and instead started learning another.

Between the choices of a violin and a piano, I had picked the piano. There was no way that the Dursleys - who were in the middle of an ongoing cold war with me - would buy me a violin to practice at home, and I could just visualize the piano keys or use paper to make my own to practice.

And I had cheated on the piano learning by asking the System how one played the piano.

Sure enough, I got a migraine but knew which key was which.

The knowledge remained in my brain after learning it, stored somewhere in the mess of thoughts and other migraine-gained information, but I needed to constantly practice or pull that knowledge to the forefront of my brain for it to truly stick as something I “learnt”.

I was tentatively fluent in french already and would be moving on to learning spanish from the husband of the 3rd graders math teacher on tuesdays and fridays afternoon.

It was just another subject to keep me occupied in my school time. The Dursleys refused to allow me to skip grades and staunchly acted like they were doing it with my best interests at heart but pretty much everyone realized that they just didn’t like me.

More than once someone had asked them why they had kept me if I was such a rotten child, but the Dursleys - Petunia in particular - made a big fuss about how they were such good and proper citizens that they took pity on me, “because what kind of life will he lead if we don’t straighten him out now?”.

Lies.

I’d spit at their feet when I was finally free to leave this prison.

I grumbled expletives under my breath as I made my way deeper into the small forest area that we had around Surrey. I had recently found a clearing that offered me a place to practice magic with sufficient cover to keep me from being seen and give me something to hide behind if the magic went “boom”.

Things tended to go “boom” a lot.

As of now, five years since I first woke up in this world, I had mastered the ability to lock and unlock all sorts of doors, including heavy key and padlock type doors, and how to float small objects up and down - a necessity to get to the content on higher shelves - and am close to mastering how to pull any kind of object towards me.

Small objects were easy, like books and pencils, but I struggled to pull anything bigger than a soccer ball.

I had tried a variety of other spells too, like the color-changing one. But it only worked perhaps 20% of the time, and the other 80% had the odd chance of instant combustion.

My practices in runes and arithmancy were coming along. My runes were still shaky and not the best that they could be with the proper tools, but I managed.

Nothing I had made had yet to work or not blow up in my face but I had time still.

Conjuring objects was still out of my reach, either they took much energy out of me - I couldn’t forget that this body was that of a child, regardless of my mind and conscious thought - or they just wouldn’t work in general.

Regardless of any of that, this place was also my ideal ‘hiding’ spot when I just wanted to be left alone to brood.

And yes, I realized that I was brooding.

Living with the Dursleys wasn’t easy, it wasn’t restful or without its tense moments.

It chaffed on me to stay in that house with those people and their opinions, whining and generally complaining about everything I did or didn’t do, what I should or shouldn’t be doing, how my entire existence was a curse inflicted upon them.

I hate them.

I swear, one of these days, they’re going to piss me off one time too many and I’ll do something I would be punished for by the Ministry but it would somehow still be _worth_ it.

Anger and resentment built up in me and I unconsciously started stomping my feet down on the dirt with each step I took, like a petulant child.

I reached the clearing and I could feel a scream of pure frustration just threatening to come out. But I didn’t want to scream. I didn’t want to cry. I just wanted to _rage_.

Rage against the people who mistreated me. Rage against the people keeping me here “for my own good”. Rage against those who would use me for their own means and leave me to shrivel and die in my time of need.

Anger. Blinding, bubbling anger, slowly engulfing me in burning flames growing larger and larger as that fire in me is stoked by more and more negative thoughts.

It grew and grew and grew and before I knew it I’d blown my top off.

Metaphorically speaking, thankfully.

“Aagh!” I screamed and the trees around me burst into thousands of splinters, the remains of them falling down with loud thumps on the ground, lifting dust into the air.

I covered my mouth and eyes yet couldn’t prevent myself from coughing.

It took a few seconds for the dust to settle, allowing me to see the damage of my… Temper tantrum.

My heart beat fast inside my chest and I felt exhausted. A bone-deep exhaustion I knew came from using too much magic too fast.

The clearing was wrecked. At least two rows of trees in all directions had been destroyed and the ground was all messed up because of the roots coming out when the tree trunks fell over.

Ugh, what a mess.

As if things couldn’t wait to get any worse I suddenly hear the distance popping sound similar to a car backfiring. And I realized two things at once:

  * One, I’d just used magic in “public”, and a significant amount of magic at that, which was surely detected by the Ministry of Magic.
  * Two, there was no way that I could outrun any witch or wizard they sent to deal with this, without a) revealing my identity, unfortunately my genetics really played against me in terms of anonymity and the scar certainly did _not_ help; and b) having Albus Dumbledore get personally involved in containing this outburst.



That was, of course, if Albus Dumbledore himself didn’t apparate to deal with this personally.

And, in light of these events, I think that my reaction was perfectly valid.

I wished. I wished, really, really hard, with every fiber of my being, for any asshole deity that had sent me into this world and might take pity on my idiot self just this once, to disappear from this clearing and into somewhere safe.

Harry Potter had accidentally apparated as a child, whilst running away from Dudley’s gang, so it wasn’t completely unprecedented that I’d manage the same feat.

Instead I didn’t end up on the school's roof. I almost wish I had, though.

“Fuck!” I cursed as whatever surface I landed on shifted beneath my feet and I fell backwards into a conveniently existing bush.

A trend I had noticed is that when I happen to be in trouble - and that meant, _very_ _often_ \- things tend to go really well in terms of outcome, only to go very, _very_ wrong just as fast.

Case in point, getting my glasses broken by Dudley - on purpose - in front of a teacher; Dudley gets detention for a while and I get an excuse by the school to get new glasses bought by the Dursleys; only for ‘Aunt Marge’ to come visit for the weekend.

I got my new glasses - and could finally see properly again - but had to deal with the demeaning woman for two days and endure her badmouthing this body’s parents.

So, I had tentatively accepted that I had shitty luck.

“Did you just appear out of thin air?” A girl with long dark hair and brown eyes stared down at me from where she was standing holding a cardboard box.

She was standing right beside the bush I had just fallen into.

Correction, I had the _shittiest_ fucking luck.

“Uhh… No?” I answered. “How would I appear out of thin air? That’s impossible.”

The girl gives me a very unimpressed look, raised brow and all, and scoffs. “Yes, because I did not just see you appearing out of thin air and falling ass first into the shrubbery.”

I quickly reorient myself back onto my feet only to get hit with a wave of nausea and vertigo that has me dropping back down to the ground.

“Hey!” I hear the girl drop the box and crouch next to me to keep me from face planting. “Are you alright?”

“Just peachy,” I answered her with a groan, my vision doubling as magical exhaustion catches up to me.

“I’m going to get my mom,” She tells me and runs off before I can stop her.

I don’t even want to bet whether the girl tells her mother a strange kid just fell out of thin air, I know that that’s going to come up.

Also, where was I even?

Dear god, if I’m nowhere near Surrey what the hell am I going to explain to anyone? Eh, I just… Caught a bus? Several buses? Took a train?

I seriously hoped I’d only jumped a few streets down from the forest, I did not want to deal with any more headaches than the one I was already facing.

“See? I told you! He appeared out of nowhere!” The girl returns with another woman.

Rosy skin and long dark hair, the woman has hazel eyes and wears a long skirt down to her feet and a blouse. She crouches down to my level and puts her hand to my forehead, checking my temperature.

“He isn’t feverish,” She murmurs and removes her hand.

Which is when she spots the cursed scar.

She pauses. Freezing for a moment before her eyes stare straight into mine and she sighs - she also curses in a language I do not recognize - before picking me up.

“Let us go to your grandmother’s, she will know best,” She tells her daughter.

“What is Nan going to do, she’s half blind already!” The girl protests.

“Hush you, your Nan is a very respected member of this community, and pick up that box,” She replies and starts walking somewhere.

I can barely lift a finger, tired and just wanting to sleep. There’s nothing in me that’s screaming danger - rather busy calling me all synonyms for idiot and stupid - so I don’t fuss or fight off her grip.

I just lay limp in her hold, trying to stay awake.

I observe the world over her shoulder, despite it being fuzzy around the edges, and just see caravans and cars, loosely forming a square around a large pitched tent where some men are placing a fire pit.

Small children run about, screaming as they chase one another.

For one unbelievable moment I swear I also heard horses.

The thought that I may have accidentally spirited myself away further than should be possible in my previous tired state is feeling more and more real with each passing second.

We didn’t walk for long, the woman came upon a large caravan and knocked on the door, “Nan, are you in there? We need your expertise,” She calls out.

There’s silence for a moment, and then: “Isabella? Is that you? Oh, what has happened?”

The door opens.

“We have a visitor. Of _that_ kind. I think you mentioned him before,” The woman - Isabella? - answers.

“Oh? Who might it be?” An old woman replies, voice amused.

“The scarred child,” She answers.

There’s a moment of absolute quiet as the older woman gasps before turning Isabella around so she could see me.

She’s old. Really, really old, full of wrinkles and silvery white hair. Her eyes are a foggy blue, one nearly fogged completely over - hadn’t the girl said she was half-blind? - but they are still sharp in a way that has me focusing on her and her alone.

She softly brushes my hair back to examine the scar herself.

“Bring him inside,” The woman orders. “Where did you find him?”

“I didn’t find him, Marsha did,” Isabella replies, entering the caravan. The inside is done in soft cream colors, there’s a U shaped couch on the rear end of the camper and that’s where the woman sets me down.

The couch is covered by this plastic cover, it crinkles slightly when my weight is placed on it.

I try to sit up but can’t seem to summon the strength to do so.

“What’s wrong with him?” The woman asks the old one.

“Marsha dear, how did you find him?” The old woman turns to the young girl I can barely see standing in the doorway.

“He fell out of the sky! One second he wasn’t there and then the next he’s standing on top of Uncle Noah’s tarp and falling on the shrubbery!” The girl, Marsha, enthusiastically tells her Nan.

“Ah, I see,” The old woman nods. “He should be fine with a bit of rest,” She tells the mother, “ _Hopefully_ ,” She adds.

“He’s just tired?” The woman blinks.

“If he did what I think he did, then he’s probably closer to exhausted than just tired,” The old woman chuckles. “Off you go now, I’m still spry enough to watch over him.”

“Are you sure, Nan?” The woman side-eyes me.

“Oh, tosh, he isn’t going to do anything to me,” The old woman decides to sit on the couch next to me just to prove her point.

“What about his kind? Won’t they come looking for him?” The mother asks.

“Perhaps they will, perhaps they won’t,” The old woman shrugs. “We won’t know until they do. Or don’t.”

The mother sighs. “Fine, do as you wish. Come on, Marsha, we still have lots of things to unpack.”

The girl whines but obeys and follows her mother as they leave, shutting the door behind them.

“You are safe here, Lilith’s child.” The old woman tells me.

I stare at her, in slight confusion, but my instincts still do not mention any danger surrounding this woman. Because of this, I trust her words and let myself fall asleep.

* * *

It’s late afternoon when I open them again. I probably slept for four hours straight and briefly wondered if the Dursleys worried where I was.

That thought was quickly tossed out of the proverbial window by another that snarkily replied that the Dursleys are probably praying that I got hit by a car and dying in a ditch somewhere.

“Are you awake now, child?” The old woman from before is sitting at a table connected to the wall of the camper.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered her, sitting up.

“Ah, so polite,” The woman laughs. “My name is Cornelia.”

“Jamie,” I told her, “May I know where I am?”

“You’re inside my camper in the Littleton Lane traveller site in Mayford,” The woman answers me.

Mayford. I was about an hour away from Surrey, terms of how long it’ll take me to walk from here to Little Whinging.

At the very least I was still in Surrey.

“Oh,” I intelligently reply.

“Yes,” The old woman nods. “And how have you appeared here, little Jamie?”

“I…” I open my mouth and close it again. “I didn’t fall out of the sky.”

She laughs. “Yes, I assumed that was indeed incorrect,” She nods. “But you did not walk into the site, and certainly didn’t fly here either.”

I purse my lips, very much aware that saying the wrong thing could get the Ministry here within the next ten minutes. The Stature of Secrecy was understandable and necessary, but it was such a bothersome feature in conversations people had to get out of.

“Are you fearful of what I may or may not know?” She asks.

I frown at her. “Who are you, Ma’am?”

“I’ve told you, I am Cornelia,” She repeats.

“No, who…” I frown, trying to think of a way to phrase the sentence. “Do you know what my scar represents?”

“ _Sowilo_ ,” She tells me, “Victory.”

Runes.

Magical? A witch?

“The sun is ever a joy in the hopes of seafarers when they journey away over the fishes' bath, until the courser of the deep bears them to land,” She recites.

“The anglo-saxon rune poem,” I recognize it from a book in the Surrey public library. It didn’t come from any magical tome, but runes were runes and they were present in both magical and muggle sides of the world.

I had filled in the holes in my admittedly spotty lessons by researching information on my own. By now the Dursleys could care less if I decided to leave the house to go to school and only returned before dinner time.

Heck, they’d love it if I stayed out past that just so they could lock the doors and make me sleep outside - unaware that I’d just unlock the door with a twitch of my fingers.

“A scholar already,” She smiles.

“Runes are interesting,” I nod. “Are you…” I hesitate.

“A witch? No, I am not like you, Lilith’s child,” She answers me.

I frown. Not a witch? Then how…-

“A squib?” I blink.

“Non-magical,” She corrects.

“Non-magical,” I echo. “But you _do_ have magic, just not enough to use a wand,” I tell her.

She smiles softly, “But isn’t the wand that matters?”

“No,” I shake my head. “You are magic, you can do other things. Like runes. Runes don’t need wands to work,” I tell her.

She laughs again. And says something in the same odd language that the woman before - Isabella, I need to remember that - used.

“What language is that?” I ask her.

“Ah, it’s the creole of my people,” She answers me. “Angloromani.”

“Angloromani…” I repeat the word. “I’m sorry, I never heard of it.”

“Well of course, gorgers rarely like to mention anything romani related,” She nods.

“Gorger?” I ask.

“Non-romani,” She points at me.

“Ah,” I nod.

“Are you by yourself?” Cornelia asks me. “We waited for someone to come, but no one did.”

“The magicals do not know that I live here,” I answered her. “And the family I live with won’t care about me being missing.”

“Why’s that?” She frowns. “You are so important-”

“My _mother_ defeated that man, or monster depends on how you view him,” I interrupt her. “All I did was survive thanks to her sacrifice.”

Cornelia pauses and fixes me with her nebulous blue eyes. She stares for a moment before nodding slowly.

“Truth,” She murmurs. “But you are marked by Victory,” She points at my scar.

“Victory to come,” I concede to the point. I look out of the window and see the blue turning pale purple. “I have to go, I don’t want to walk in total darkness.”

“If it’s dark you can always shine a light,” She chuckles.

“Not unless I want the Ministry to come sniffing about,” I grumble.

Her chuckles turn into full laughter. My lips twitch into a smile in response.

We’re interrupted by the door of the camper opening.

A tall man with reddish brown hair and brown eyes stands at the entrance. His eyes briefly settle on me before turning to the old woman.

“Nan, we need a bit of advice from the matriarch,” He tells her.

Cornelia clicks her tongue and sighs, “Ah, you’re grown men. I’m an old woman and yet I get called about every little nitpick you and your cousins get into. What is it this time? The water tank is a little too much to the left?” She complains but gets up anyways.

She then turns to me, “Well, come along, little Jamie, you won’t be running home from _inside_ my camper, will you?” She gives me an amused look.

My smile turns into a crooked grin as I stand up, “No, Ma’am.”

“See, Ewart, such a polite boy,” Cornelia pats the tall man on the cheek as she passes him by.

“Ay,” The man stares at me with an unreadable expression.

“Don’t try to frighten him away, I rather enjoyed his company,” Cornelia tells him without turning around.

I step out of the caravan and the man - Ewart - shuts the door behind me, he follows after Cornelia without saying a word.

“Oh, you’re awake!” The girl who found me, Marsha comes bounding up to me. 

“Hi,” I say to her.

She looks amused. “Hi,” She echoes back. “Who are you?”

“Jamie,” I tell her.

“Well, Jamie,” She starts. “Why did you appear out of thin air?”

I purse my lips at her. “A miscalculation.”

“Of what?” She asks.

“Space,” I answered her.

“That doesn’t answer anything!” She complains.

I shrug, looking back up at the sky. “I have to go now, it’s going to get dark soon.”

“Do you live near?” She asks me.

“A little ways away, but I’m walking,” I said, turning towards the entrance of the sight.

There were several adults out and milling around, not just children, and they stared at me.

I didn’t feel threatened but I wasn’t welcomed here either.

I hurried home without looking back.

* * *

Marsha was at my school the next day.

I blinked at her as she smiled back at me.

“Class, this is Marsha Neil,” The teacher, one Mrs Philips - Miss Tully taught first graders only, but she still made time for me after regular school hours - who wore a wig and disliked troublemakers. She was an older teacher who had a bit of a soft spot for me

What can I say, I was a very bright and polite “child”, all the old ladies loved me.

Petunia had tried to instill manners in Dudley by taking him out on tea dates with her friends, something that quickly stopped when Dudley’s tantrums kept getting them thrown out of the parlors.

I laughed myself silly that night, muffling my amusement into my old battered pillow.

“She will be joining us for this semester as her family stays in Surrey for the winter months,” Mrs Philips told us.

A hand rose up in the air.

“Yes, Lizzie?” Mrs Philips asks.

“Why are they only staying for the winter months?” Lizzie asks.

Marsha is the one answering, “Travellers are nomads, Surrey is our wintering base, where we stop during the winter months, before traveling for work again.”

“She’s a pikey!” Piers Polkiss yelled.

Mrs Philips turned as red as a tomato, “Mr Polkiss, what sort of language is that? Detention today!”

Marsha didn’t even blink at the insult.

“Now, Miss Neil you can sit…” Mrs Philips eyes the classroom. “You can sit next to Miss Johnson. Miss Johnson will you please stand up?”

A girl to my far left stands up, there is an empty desk besides hers. She doesn’t look too happy about this development.

Marsha quietly finds her seat and settles down for the lesson to start.

“What’s a pikey?” I hear a girl ask her neighbor.

“They’re thieves and vagrants, my daddy said so,” Was their reply.

I rolled my eyes at their words.

If humans stopped discriminating and being racists I swear they’d die of boredom. Apparently not one day can go by without someone needing to vocalize an uninformed opinion and someone else taking that as fact.

I opened an exercise book and started working on it as Mrs Philips started her lesson on 3rd grade math.

Recess couldn’t come fast enough.

Marsha immediately came over to my desk as soon as we were allowed to leave our seats.

“Hi, Jamie,” She greets me.

“Hello, Marsha,” I nod. “How is your Nan?”

“Oh, Nan’s fine,” She shrugs. “What are you doing today?”

“What do you mean?” I look at her confused.

“I mean, what are you doing today after school?” She clarifies.

“Oh,” I hum. “I’m practicing my spanish today with a guest, I’ll leave school at about four in the afternoon. Then I’m going to go over to the park or something before it gets dark and I have to return to my Aunt’s house.”

“Hm, then why don’t you come back to the site? You didn’t even meet anyone since you were asleep the whole time, and then had to leave,” She invites me.

“Am I welcome there?” I frown. “Yesterday’s surprise appearance notwithstanding, won’t your family be… annoyed with my presence? As an outsider of your community?”

Marsha’s smile widens. “Nan liked you, and she’s the matriarch. So as long as she likes you, you’re welcomed to come visit.”

I nod. “Okay, but I only leave the school at four, classes let out at three. And I’ll take a bit to walk to the site.”

“Oh, I’ll wait for you, don’t worry!” She grins.

I blink at her, surprised. “Are you sure? You’ll get pretty bored.”

“Nope! I’ll wait for you, then we can go together!” She is adamant.

“Okay, fine. We’ll go together,” I agree.

“Great! Now, are you going outside or are you staying inside?” She asks.

“Do you want to go outside?” I ask her.

“Yes, it’s great outside. The classroom is all stuffy and stuff,” She wrinkles her nose.

I huff, amused, “Fine, let’s go outside. But word of warning, the others are probably going to say mean things about you.”

“Yeah, that’s normal,” She shrugs. “They’re all gorgers anyway.”

“I’m _technically_ also a gorger,” I look at her amused.

“Yes, well, my Nan likes you. So you’re a _likable_ gorger,” She tells me, as if that made any sense.

To her it probably does.

Eight year olds, I’ll never understand them.

“Let us go outside then,” I gesture for her to walk out the door first, “To shock the unlikable gorgers about our unlikely acquaintance.”

“Why would they be shocked?” She asks me.

“Because I’m a pariah by any other name,” I crookedly grin at her. “You’ll hear of me in this town, the genius and darling of the professors. The bane of my aunt and uncle’s lives, the scourge in their pristine reputation.”

“You?” She fights off a smile.

“Oh, yes, me,” I nod severely. “I am a thief and a liar, I make up tall tales about their darling ‘Duddykins’ and wreak havoc on the neighborhood.”

“Do you?” She asks.

“Do I what? Lie? Sometimes. Steal? Nope. Make up tall tales about Dudley? Trust me, I don’t need to. He does all the hard work himself,” I scoff. “And wreak havoc in the neighborhood?” I recall accidentally blowing up the forest the other day.

“Sometimes, yeah. Gotta keep life interesting, ya know?” I grin.

Marsha laughs.

* * *

As she had promised, Marsha was waiting for me when I walked out of the building following my spanish classes.

“Were you very bored?” I asked her as we started walking to the site.

“Meh, I did some homework,” She shrugs. “Next time I’ll bring a book or my gameboy color.”

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow at her. “Already planning the next time you’ll wait for me?”

“Well, yes,” She nods. “I asked the teacher about you learning spanish and she told me that you have after-school tutoring because your relatives refuse to let you advance a year or two.”

I hum, “It’s true. The Dursleys would rather cut off their nose to spite their own face than to do anything solely for me.”

“Why?” Marsha frowns. “Aren’t you their nephew?”

“Blood to them doesn’t matter. Or well, I guess _my_ blood matters because in their view it’s impure and unnatural,” I shrug. “Honestly, I could care less about what they think of me so long as they stopped making my life hell.”

“Why don’t you leave?” She frowns. “Isn’t there any other family member that could take you in?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” I tell her.

“How?” Marsha frowns. “Is it because you’re a Lilith’s child?”

Now it’s my turn to frown, “Why did your Nan call me that? What is a Lilith’s child?”

Marsha leans in and whispers in my ear, “You can do magic.”

So her Nan is a squib. But why does she call wizards and witches ‘Lilith’s child’.

I nod. “Are you a Lilith’s child also?” I ask her.

Marsha shakes her head. “No, Nan says perhaps my children will be. But it’s fine, I wouldn’t want to be one either.”

“Oh?” I look interested. “Why not?”

“Because then I’d have to go to school and stop traveling,” She replies. “I couldn’t do all the shows with the rest of the family.”

“Shows?” I tilt my head.

Marsha beams, “Yeah! When winter ends we go traveling again. My Uncle Oliver and his family goes west to work with horses but my family plus my Uncle Noah’s family goes east and we join the Russell’s Circus until it’s winter again!”

“That’s cool,” I tell her. Honestly, it was. “What do you do at the circus?” I asked her.

“I ride a unicycle,” She tells me, and then looks at me as if waiting for something.

I blink at her. “What? Is there something wrong with that? Aren’t unicycles really hard though? Because it’s not easy to stay balanced on it and pedal.” I thought about it.

Marsha’s expression turns brighter and softer at the same time.

Something in me whispers that I just passed some sort of test.

“It’s really hard!” She groans. “We have to practice a lot, but it’s so cool to work in the big tent.”

I hum, “If I joined a circus I’d be a stunt rider,” I told her.

She looks surprised. I grinned toothily at her, “What? Their stunts look awesome! Have you seen a rider do the globe of death? Amazing!”

Marsha practically vibrates in place, “Oh! You should come with us!”

I grimace. “I can’t. As you’ve said, I’ll eventually have to go to school. And there’s someone interested in keeping me in Surrey until then. I can’t just leave,” I tell her.

She frowns. “But do you want to stay here?”

“No,” I shake my head. “But I can’t leave. Not until I’m of age.”

“Then you’ll join the circus afterwards,” She decides.

I laugh, “We’ll see. In nine years we’ll come back to this conversation and see if I still want to join your circus.”

“You’ll join us, you’ll see! In the meantime, we can ask my Uncle Noah what it takes to be a stunt rider!” She practically skips the rest of the way to the site.

I shake my head at her enthusiasm.

She’d probably forget all about this once the interest in me died down. They were only staying here for the winter months, so if they returned next year she’ll have dropped the matter entirely.

~~(I was wrong. I was very, very wrong. A lesson I had learnt the hard way, Marsha does not, and it bears repeating, does _not_ just ‘forget’ or ‘let matters drop’. If you promised her something, you best believe she will make you keep your end of it.) ~~

* * *

The site was exactly like it had been yesterday, except the fire pit was fully installed and I saw several lawn chairs and dog kennels set down near the campers.

“Uncle Noah!” Marsha yelled waving her arms over her head.

‘Uncle Noah’ was a very tall, very blond man with green eyes. He had a thick mustache under his nose and a beaming grin on his face.

“My darling Marsha! How was your day?” He asks her.

“Boring!” Marsha laughs.

“Boring?! Oh, the tragedy!” Her uncle dramatically grasps at his heart.

I smile in bemusement at the scene.

“And who is this?” He asks, turning to me.

“He’s Jamie, he’s my friend!” Marsha tells him. “He wants to be a stunt rider!”

Her uncle gives me an incredulous look.

I cough. “I said: ‘ _If_ I joined a circus, I’d be a stunt rider’, not ‘I want to be one’.”

“But you’d like to be one?” Marsha asks.

Well…

“Yeah,” I shrug. “They’re awesome.”

“Then you want to be one and you’ll join the circus with us!” Marsha fist-pumps.

I sigh. “Marsha…”

Uncle Noah starts laughing and claps me on the shoulder, “A stunt rider? A fine goal! But very dangerous,” He tells me, looking me in the eye.

I grin at him, eyes gleaming. “But that doesn’t make it any less awesome.”

I get a matching grin in response to my words, “Are you sure you’re a gorger? I swear there must be some romani blood in you yet!” He laughs.

“He’s a Lilith’s Child,” Marsha says, as if that answers anything, “Nan likes him.”

“ _Ah_ , so he’s our mysterious visitor from yesterday. Isabella was beside herself with worry at his sorry state.” Her uncle comments.

I wince.

Marsha laughs, endlessly amused, and then stops with a gasp.

“We must go say hi to my mother!” She says and grabs my arm, pulling me with her.

“Wha-? Marsha!” I protest her manhandling.

“Come on, slowpoke! My mom’s over there!” She laughs, “Mama! Mama, look who I’ve got!”

“Marsha!” I continue my protests.

“Oh, boy, if I were you I wouldn’t struggle! Marsha’s like a chinese finger-trap, once she’s gotten you in her grip, she’s not letting you go until you resign yourself to your fate!” Noah laughs at my misfortune.

“Never!” I yell back, laughing a bit.

“Mama!” Marsha’s happy little chirp has me looking up to see the worried woman from yesterday sigh at her daughter’s antics.

“ _Marsha_ ,” There’s so much motherly exasperation in just that word that Marsha lets go of my arm and grins widely at her mother.

“Yes?” She wiggles in place, seemingly of the mind that ‘if I act cute then she can’t punish me’.

“What are you doing, dragging him around?” Her mother fusses over us, “He was sick yesterday!”

“Jamie is fine today! Like Nan said, he just needed to nap it off,” Marsha gave me an amused grin, “No more appearing out of thin air until you’re older.”

I roll my eyes, “It was an accident,” I grumble.

A warm hand settles on my forehead, checking my temperature, I look startled at the woman.

“Well, if you’re here to play together try to do that inside, it’s cold today and I don’t either of you catching colds.” She tells us.

“Ok!” Marsha nods and proceeds to pull me - _again_ \- in the opposite direction. “Lemme me show you our camper! It’s super cool!”

“Marsha,” I whine, just the tiniest bit, “I can walk!”

“You’re too slow! C’mon, c’mon!” Marsha ignores my protests.

Her camper isn’t too far from where her mother was working, so we reach it and Marsha unceremoniously opens the door and nearly shoves me inside.

“Oof,” I huff, climbing the steps. “Marsha, so cruel!” I whine.

“Shush you! You’re going to be a stunt rider, you’re going to get into all kinds of scrapes and bruises,” She shrugs.

The inside of their camper is done in light blues and whites, in a very frilly type of style. I blink, totally not expecting that.

Marsha grimaces, “Mom likes the frills, don’t say anything against them to her,” Marsha warns me.

“Duly noted,” I nod.

“C’mon, this is where I sleep,” Marsha walks deeper into the camper, stopping in front of a bunk bed built into the walls of the camper. One on each side of the camper, so there’s four beds total there.

“This is my bed, and that’s my brother’s bed,” Marsha points at one and then at the one above hers.

“Where is your brother?” I ask her. “Doesn’t he go to school too?”

“Nah, Michael works with my dad,” Marsha shakes her head. “Mom wants to have more kids, two more to fill the other beds, but dad thinks two is fine.”

“Hm,” I hum. “Do you want more siblings?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a little sister,” Marsha thinks about it, head tilted to the side.

“I think having siblings is nice,” I told her, remembering my own half-brothers. “Even if you get into fights with them, they’ll still have your back later.”

“Yeah,” Marsha nods. “Does your cousin have any siblings?”

“Honestly, I think the world is better off without a Dudley 2.0,” I dramatically shudder. “Or a duplicate of my Aunt Petunia.”

Marsha had already met my cousin - going to St. Gregory’s School, it was impossible not to have at least _heard_ Dudley Dursley - and she agreed with that fact.

“Well! What are we going to do now?” Marsha looks at me.

I look back at her blankly, for once at a loss of what to suggest.

When was the last time I had interacted with actual children that weren’t talking to me just for the sake of discouraging Dudley?

I open my mouth but nothing comes out, I close it again.

Marsha looks to be thinking of something.

And then her eyes gleam.

_Oh-oh_ , something inside of me trembles.

Marsha grins so devilishly at me that I doubt I’d be able to tell the difference between her and a demon.

“...Uh… Marsha…?” I gulped, suddenly very, very weary of whatever her brain has just cooked up.

“How about…” Marsha inches closer to me and I try to backtrack towards the camper door.

“How about we play make-up artists?”

Oh, dear lord in heaven, no!

I try to make a run for it.

Marsha is surprisingly fast when she wants to be.

On the bright side, she has talent in picking colors. I’d never thought I’d look good in purple.


	5. Family and Resemblance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15/09 Edit - Oops, sorry guys, I never thought I'd say this but, hey, if you guys want to buy me a coffee I have a new Ko-Fi account, also it links to my tumblr and I have a vague sense that I might post little tidbits of the System Multiverse as a whole. Even if it's just me grumbling about my brain and its madness - https://ladycroftundead.tumblr.com/

# This Hill I will Die On

* * *

Arc I - Recrudescence

**Chapter Five: Family and Resemblance**

Time is an interesting concept.

When I first awoke inside of Harry Potter’s body, time moved… slowly. Dragging, almost.

I filled my time with all sorts of lessons and activities that would distract my mind from the long years of waiting before I could finally begin to act on my plans for the world.

Until Marsha entered my life with the odd quirk of my failed - yet, _technically_ successful - apparation attempt, and all the force and will of a bulldozer.

In the three months that she remained in Surrey with her family, we were nigh inseparable. I tended to arrive early at school, practically rushing out of the Dursley household after grabbing my lunchbox and stuffing some meager breakfast down my throat, whilst Marsha was a heavy sleeper and arrived closer to the bell ringing while still half-asleep and raging against the injustice of mornings.

Before I really gave it a conscious thought, I started walking to the site and then walking back towards the school with her in the mornings.

On the days where the weather was simply awful and too cold to stay outside for long, her mother would chastise me for my longer trek and then turn to her daughter and chastise _her_ for making me - her best friend, and wasn’t that a surprise to hear the first time - walk such a long way because she was a lazy bag of bones in the morning.

Isabella also tended to stuff me with a second breakfast - an _actual_ breakfast though, so I should count it as my only breakfast of the day - whenever I arrived.

Ewart, her husband - and wow, I did _not_ realize he was Marsha’s father, but looking back, I should’ve noticed the resemblance of their eyes and chin - had warmed up to me after a while.

Michael was enthusiastic about having someone else bearing the brunt of Marsha’s attention. He looked like a smaller replica of his father, only getting the ears and nose from his mother, and a fun bloke to be around.

He was quite a bit older than Marsha, fourteen to our eight, and had left school when he was twelve. He was homeschool by his Aunt Felicity, married to his Uncle Noah - so his education continued the whole year uninterrupted despite going off to the circus with his family after winter was over.

He was a knife thrower and had shown me his tricks after Marsha pestered him into putting on a show for me.

Well, everyone - working with the circus - had been persuaded by Marsha into showing off. Not that they needed much persuasion, they loved showing off their skills.

I hadn’t expected Marsha’s father to be a juggler or her mother to be an acrobat on the silks - a skill I hadn’t been able to see because the silks were with Russell’s circus and you needed quite a bit of height to do anything worthwhile, but I had been shown pictures and her mother looked amazing.

But what shocked me the most was the fact that her Uncle Noah - and his family - were clowns.

He did not strike me as a clown without his make-up and act on.

But they were brilliant clowns.

I had laughed and laughed at their antics, clutching at Marsha when her littlest cousin Louis - who was perhaps four years old - kicked his father in the shin, the highest body part he could kick, and the tall man went down with a wail, clutching at his shins as if struck by a tank.

Wailing and wailing until his wife tutted at him and pulled him up by his ear. His wife, mind you, who was a head and a half shorter than he was, meaning the man had to lean heavily over his wife for her to comfortably hold his ear.

A brilliant, brilliant show. I hadn’t laughed that much in years. Faith in humanity restored and my skin had cleared.

Not to be outdone by his brothers, Marsha’s other uncle, Oliver, the only one whose family did not participate in the circus, decided that I - like a good angloromani boy - should learn how to ride and take care of horses.

That had been jolly good fun too.

When February finally arrived and Marsha’s family was getting ready to leave I felt… very sad.

It was an odd feeling to have when I had spent the last five years either numb to other people or full of resentment and hate towards other humans.

My teachers were nice to me, but… It wasn’t the same. They didn’t know who I was or how I felt.

Marsha’s family, who were aware of magic despite not having any, were… freeing. They knew I was someone important to the other side, they knew I was treated awful in this prison I was chained to because of a manipulative old man, under the excuse that it was “for my own good” - which Marsha’s Nan had scoffed at and explained to her relatives that there were so many other ways to protect someone much more securely than ‘blood wards’ tied to non-magical relatives who’d rather have me starve and beaten than growing into my powers.

So, knowing they were leaving for nine months and would only be back by early december or late november was… hurting.

I didn’t want them to go, but I also wanted them to because it was something they belonged in and excelled at.

It was part of their culture to travel and, as I learnt more and more about it, I was fascinated by it.

I wanted to go with them.

I wanted to stay with them.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t and it _hurt_.

Marsha was hurting too. When her father had reminded her that it was time to start packing the site back up again, she had looked as if struck. Her eyes had widened and she looked around, realizing just how much time had passed.

And then she had started bawling.

I hadn’t known what else to do other than hug her. I had hugged my kids when they had cried - usually after scrapping their knees or getting into messy arguments with one another.

Indeed, much like her I had not noticed time flying by.

Marsha had wanted me to come with them, begged me to run away in the middle of the night, and I had explained to her - at length - why I couldn’t do that. Why I couldn’t risk them ever coming across Dumbledore.

My biggest fear was that Dumbledore would get to them and make them forget me, make them avoid Surrey altogether despite it being their wintering base.

He’d probably try to have me forget them too, erase the memories I have of them or alter them, but the System assured me that that was impossible.

I could be compelled and controlled by the usual means, but my thoughts and memories could not be read or altered in any way, shape or form.

That was reassuring, in its own complicated way.

But Marsha and her family had no such assurance. They were unprotected from the likes of Dumbledore and his ‘Greater Good’, from Death Eaters and their zealous devotion to Voldemort.

And for all that I acted like I didn’t care one whit about what happened to myself and got into all manners of confrontations with Vernon and his increasing anger and frustration in me - something I had learnt, via System, stemmed from his belief that my father had insulted and belittled him - I would never dare to endanger Marsha and her family for something like my desire for their presence.

One day I would be free to follow them.

One day I would be free to indulge in my own travels, my own wants and wishes.

Marsha and her family would be back next winter. They would be back and I’d have them back and we’d go back to our new routine.

This separation was only temporary. Once I turned eleven Marsha wouldn’t have me here in Surrey for most of winter anyway.

Once in Hogwarts if Dumbledore didn’t mess with my calculations - and he better fucking _not_ \- I’d only be here for little over two weeks in december, and then I’d be back on the express by january 1st at the earliest.

Only to return for the summer holidays since there was no reason for me to return during the Easter holidays, Marsha already long gone by then.

I’d explained this to her but it still didn’t make it any easier to accept.

So I went to see them off and waved at the crying Marsha as they drove away and then I went to my hide-away clearing - which still bore scars from my tantrum - so I could break down crying without any witnesses.

_It hurt. It hurt._ **_It hurt!_**

I cried until I had no tears left to cry and then I sat there and stared at the trees without really seeing anything.

It’s amazing how you only notice how lonely you felt before when the warmth of company you had basked in for days on end is suddenly gone again.

My loneliness wasn’t cold. It wasn’t constant. It wasn’t malicious.

My loneliness was a brief blanket of longing that wrapped itself around me at odd moments of the day and whispered to me ‘Marsha would’ve enjoyed that’, ‘If Marsha was here we’d be doing this’, ‘If…’, ‘If…’, ‘If…’.

My loneliness was a hunger for something I had forgotten the taste of and now craved it more than ever.

My loneliness made simple moments of the day sadder just by reminding me that I had no one here to enjoy it with, no one to talk to them about, no one here to listen and see and _feel_.

I wonder if Harry felt like this at some point.

Had this turmoil been the only feeling inside of his heart until he went to Hogwarts? Longing for companionship and a family all his life, until he met the Golden Trio and then that longing was saved up for the three months of summer holidays until he could return to the one place he felt at home.

Or, did his longing remain even then?

His friends had families, he did not. His friends had a home to return to, he did not. His friends experienced the world and life, Harry was stuck in Privet Drive.

Chained to a family that should’ve loved and cared for him unconditionally because that’s what _family_ is meant to do.

But Dumbledore knew that that would never happen.

He _knew_ , and did nothing.

But he’d do something to the Neils if he found out about them.

It’s hilarious, really, that Voldemort killed Harry’s parents and would try to kill me the moment he laid his eyes on me again, and yet he was not the one I hated most. Feared the most.

That title laid at the feet of Albus Dumbledore.

A man who thought to tie me up in so many puppet strings that even if I loosened one, another would strangle me in place.

A man who took one look at my cursed scar, saw what it truly was, and decided that I would have to die in the end - for the Greater fucking Good - without ever looking into ways to remove the Horcrux and allow me to _live_!

Raised as a pig for slaughter.

Well, _this_ little piggy isn’t about to roll over and take it.

This little piggy is going to build himself a nice fucking brick house. And the old goat could huff and puff all he wanted, could try to climb in through my chimney only to get his ass torched on the flames of my visceral hatred for him, could try to wait for me outside the door but he’d be waiting there for a _long_ time.

I wasn’t Harry Potter.

I wasn’t the child he left outside of the Dursleys doorstep in the middle of the night.

The child he planned to manipulate, to indoctrinate, into self-sacrifice and martyrdom.

I was Jamie A. Rose.

I was the man who woke in this body with a Challenge to beat and an unlimited supply of information.

The man who would cut off all the threads surrounding this body, one by painstakingly one if I had to, and I would be _free_.

Albus Dumbledore had just made a fatal miscalculation in his planning.

And he didn’t even know it.

~~(Let this be a lesson to all of you. You can try to beat me, you can try to hurt me, you can try to harm the ones I hold dearest. But I will defeat you at every corner, I’ll come back stronger, I will utterly destroy you. And above all, do not ever fucking dare to try and tame me.)~~

I wiped my eyes on my sleeves and took a deep breath, filled my lungs with the crisp air of february scented with pine and earth and rain to come, and let it out again.

When I opened my eyes again, the green had turned steely and sharp like cut emeralds.

It was time to get work done. I was done playing around with kid gloves. If Dumbledore expected me to be ignorant, then I would be observant. If Dumbledore expected me to be indolent, then I would be active. If Dumbledore expected me to be obedient, then I would be chaotic.

He was expecting a pawn.

**Let us show him a King.**

* * *

My room at the Dursleys has changed since I was first moved into it.

Whereas before the walls had been a pale yellow, I had managed to get the color-changing spell to work and made them a smoky blue color, and they were covered with posters and maps.

A world-map with different colored pins of all the places that Marsha (in red pins) and I (in green pins) wanted to visit.

In blue pins I had placed down all magical locations, even added carefully cut paper tags identifying them.

And then an enlarged map of the UK, where I had used yellow pins and thread to carefully mark down Russell’s circus itinerary. Each city with a tag of the general month they should settle down in.

My bed, which had been a sorry old thing, had been scrubbed clean and polished until the metal frame shined, and I had received new bed-sheets and a handmade quilt from one of Marsha’s aunts.

Under my bed there was a loose floorboard where I had stuffed an empty shoe-box - which I would replace with a lock-box, a sturdy one, as soon as I was able to afford one - where I placed important notebooks and small trinkets I had received over time.

There was a closet in my room, which was comfortably full of clothes that fit me and _only_ me - plus I had enchanted the doors so that they could only be magically opened, just so that there weren’t ‘unfortunate accidents’ - plus spare sheets and towels.

Three pairs of shoes, a pair of sneakers, boots and rain boots, and a wide collection of socks.

On the floor of the room I had found and cleaned a large circular rug and had changed its color - originally a very dirty pink - to a deep blue color. I had then - once I had managed to make it work - placed a cushioning charm on it, so it was very comfortable to lie on.

Finally, under my window, I had a simple wooden desk with a chair. There was a rubbish bin underneath the desk, usually overflowing with torn up paper from my rune practices. The desk had two drawers and they were both filled with all sorts of stationary.

I planned on getting a bookshelf placed on the wall beside the desk, so that I could place any books I had acquired or bought there, instead of lying in organized piles on the floor.

All of Dudley’s broken toys had been fixed and sold in second-hand stores, the money made from those sales saved up inside of my hidden shoe-box.

It was using that money that I generally bought new notebooks, or reams of paper, stationary or non-perishable food and water bottles.

The door of my room was covered with various locks but I had long since been able to open those undetected, better yet, I used them to lock my door at night so that Dudley or the adults couldn't enter while I was asleep, and I _magically_ locked it when I left during the day.

Vernon had swore violently at me when I returned home one day and he found that little tidbit out.

It was funny that they thought I _wouldn’t_ have measures in place to protect my belongings from them.

The final piece of furniture in my bedroom was a night table beside bed, which had a soft blue lamp and where I placed my glasses whilst I slept.

All in all, I was very happy with how it looked.

It was an actual room, and it was mine and mine alone.

I placed my backpack on the back of the chair and opened it. I removed all the notebooks and school books I had inside, plus my most recent purchase.

I opened the package around the calendar and set it up on my desk, using a red pen I wrote all the important dates I had to keep an eye on, and then using a green pen I put down all the assignments I had to complete for school.

I drew a smiley stickman riding a unicycle beside the month of December.

I sorted through my school work what needed to be done right away, what had already been done, and any after-school work that I should probably get done before I forgot, and settled down to deal with it.

Once that was complete, I checked my schedule and placed the relevant materials back in my backpack.

Now for the fun part.

I went into my closet and pulled from underneath my socks three notebooks.

One was my third runes notebook, the other was my fourth arithmancy notebook, and the last was my planning notebook.

I placed the first two back. Today, I wasn’t going to be working on any of that.

Before walking back to my desk I made sure that my door was closed, I placed the notebook down on the desk and selected a number of colored pens and pencils to have at hand, before grabbing a water bottle also.

Then reviewed what I had written already. Once I reached the last page I took another deep breath and closed my eyes.

I centered my thoughts and what was most important to know, organized matters, questions and doubts by how relevant they might turn out to be.

On that note, I opened my eyes and pulled a ream of loose lined paper and placed it beside the notebook also, just in case any questions not-pertaining to the matter at hand cropped up, or I needed to ask for clarification on something.

Making sure that I definitely had everything that I would need, I started.

_‘System,’_ I called. _‘Tell me everything about Albus Dumbledore, the current Headmaster of Hogwarts.’_

I wrote down every last word that the System said. And after it finished talking I’d make sure that I had gotten it all and wrote in different colors details that I asked the System for clarification.

I added on the loose paper questions to ask later.

And then I moved to other topics.

_‘System, what are Dumbledore’s specific plans for my arrival at Hogwarts?’_

_‘System, why does Dumbledore have my Gringotts key?’_

_‘System, what are the goblins’ opinions on Horcruxes?’_

_‘System, who are the members of the Wizengamot?’_

_‘System, what are the laws of the Wizarding World?’_

On and on it went, days and days of questions and debilitating migraines, of paper-cuts and ink stained fingers. Of sleepless nights when the weight and enormity of what you were about to face - and accomplish - sank down in your mind and tried to smother your ambitions with self-doubt.

But you had to get up in the morning. 

When the sun rose on the horizon regardless of how exhausted you felt and how bleak the future seemed, you had to get up.

I couldn’t give up.

I wouldn’t give up.

**Fate is Set in Stone.**

The words haunted me behind my eyelids.

Notebooks hidden inside my closet bled ink through pages and pages of what spelled out my ‘fated’ demise.

But I wasn’t someone who went down easy. If I fell I got back up and tried harder. Worked harder. Until regardless of who tried to knock me down failed and _kept failing_ until they realized their goal was unachievable.

~~(Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions. I always did like that quote.)~~

So I kept going.

I kept getting up in the morning and putting my game-face on. I ran from the Dursleys house to the Mayford site and then once around it before running back to school.

In rain, in sun, in hail or in fog.

I ran and trained this body to endure the burning in my lungs and legs. The soreness of muscles and back.

In school I excelled in my studies - regular and after-school - and threw myself in learning as much as I could before I turned eleven.

And after school was done I went to the public library and read my way through their bookshelves, writing more notebooks and suffering awful cramping in my hands.

But I kept doing it.

I lost myself in it.

Like diving into a still, murky water lake.

Getting lost in the confusion and pressure of the water, not knowing which way was up or down.

I only came up for air when Marsha’s postcards arrived.

And I called them postcards but they could be considered care-packages.

I laughed at the pages and pages of cheerful writing that Marsha seemed to spend her free time writing to me.

Like a diary, every single day was accounted for. What she had done, what she had planned on doing, who she met and hung out with. All there in those pages, words upon words where I could _feel_ the love and care they had been written with.

I cried while reading them, a smile stretched on my face, and I saved every last piece of paper in a hidden corner of my closet.

From the packages I got candy and trinkets from their travels. Sometimes a piece of clothing, or a toy, or a book.

And photographs.

_Hundreds of photographs._

I made scrapbooks with them all, wrote what was happening in them from Marsha’s letters, and reviewed them when the weight of my responsibility and lessons got to me.

I dreamt of nights by a campfire, of listening to all of these stories and tall tales told by the other performers, of leaning into the laughing Marsha would no doubt have her arm thrown over my shoulders and jostling me around as she enthusiastically recounted her act.

I dreamt of the rumble of a motorbike and the cheers of crowds. Of the blood pumping in my veins and thundering in my ears. Of the adrenaline coursing through my body and bringing the world into the sharpest of focus.

I dreamt of clear blue skies and open fields. Of sprawling cities and nightlife. Of endless oceans and vast horizons.

I dreamt of _freedom_.

And then I woke up and yearned. I yearned and I spit at the chains holding me down. I yearned and I learnt that there were worse things than death.

The sun rose outside my window and I got up and got to work.

February turned into March, and then April, and then May, and before I knew it December was right around the corner.

After talking to my teachers I had made it known that for the duration of Marsha’s stay I wouldn’t be doing any after-school activities.

My teachers had understood and they were happy that I had made such a close friendship with someone.

On the third week of November I was doing my usual run before school and I was startled by loud honking.

I stopped and I looked back and couldn’t believe my eyes at the line of campers coming down the road.

My face had split into a grin even before Marsha’s grinning face appeared out of the window.

“What are you doing, slowpoke?!” She yelled.

“What am I doing? How about how late are you going to be for school today?!” I yelled back, laughing.

“Who cares about school?!” Marsha yells back, offended.

“Clearly not you!” I reply, and don’t even hesitate to jump inside the camper when it briefly stops in front of me.

I have barely shut the door behind me when Marsha bowls me over, crying ugly tears into my shoulder.

“I missed you!” She cries.

Tears sting my eyes.

“I missed you too,” I tell her, voice rough.

The loneliness that trailed after me, that wrapped itself around my heart and tinged all of my thoughts with nostalgia and longing, faded.

It dissolved under the weight and warmth of her arms around me. Of the smell of her hair and the tears staining her face.

The rage, and anger, and resentment built over these long months smoothed over. Settled down to burrow beneath my skin until their presence departed from my life again.

And though I knew, understood, and _agreed_ that they would have to leave again come the end of winter, my heart of hearts begged them never to leave me behind again.

You’re mine.

_Mine. Mine._ **_Mine._ **

And I do not wish to see you go.

_Stay. Stay._ **_Stay._ **

But my rational mind severed that line of thoughts before they could become a problem.

I could not protect them from the forces that would come after me. Not yet, at least.

But I would be able to, one day.

_One day. One day._ **_One day._ **

~~(You spend your whole time sitting here twiddling your fingers and expecting your dreams to, what? Just accomplish themselves? I have what I have today because I worked hard to achieve it. Do not fucking dare to complain to my face about having things handed to me. What have you done with your life besides complaining about what other people have or don’t have?)~~

* * *

Two years passed in the blink of an eye.

Before I realized it was Dudley’s eleventh birthday and the Dursleys were complaining about Mrs Figg not being able to watch over me for the day and getting forcefully bundled up into Vernon’s car and heading to the zoo.

Dudley and Piers loudly complained about my presence but didn’t dare to do anything other than that.

As if my ability to knock them on their asses and coming out smelling like roses wasn’t enough of a deterrent, my friendship with ‘the pikeys’ made my pariah status amongst the students unassailable.

Oh, how happy the Dursleys had been when they found out, to have legitimate proof that I was nothing but a scoundrel in the making, same as my parents.

It was hilarious, truly hilarious, how awful excuses of human beings they were, playing pretend at being anything more than wastes of space.

The zoo trip was alright.

The moment I had my ticket I had made myself scarce from the Dursleys, if need be I had a wallet with enough change to buy myself a ticket home, and wandered about.

I found myself inside the reptile house and in front of the Boa Constrictor exhibit long before Dudley and the Dursleys thought it was time to come see the snakes.

:So bored:

The voice that came from the snake was distinctively male and sleepy sounding. It didn’t sound like a normal voice, there was a faint echo to it.

As if not spoken at all. As if it was speaking through more than just words and hissing.

:I would be too, trapped day in and day out in your enclosure: I relate to it.

:You can hear me?:

:Yes, I take it that it’s never happened before?: I ask unnecessarily, already knowing that the only parselmouths around in Britain were Voldemort and I.

:Never before:

:Do you want to get out of here? I can let you out, but you’re on your own with trying to find a way out of this place: I offer.

:Yes, let me out:

I focus on the glass in front of me, my hand reaching out and touching it, I feel the coolness of it, how strong and thick it is. And then I picture it gone, my hand passing through it, the cold glass disappearing.

The glass gives way, falling like silk cloth down on the floor of the enclosure, the material brushing against my fingers as it slides down.

:There you go: I pull my hand back :Freedom is yours:

:Brazil here I come. Thanks, amigo:

I watched it slither away, people screaming “snake!” and running away.

“Any time,” I murmur back. ‘If only my cage was as easy to get out of.’

The snake misadventure caused enough havoc that the zoo shut down, I kept my face impartial and free of any lingering amusement when I wandered back to the Dursleys. Dudley throwing another tantrum about his birthday trip being ruined by a ‘lousy snake’.

When we returned I didn’t even enter the house, walking towards the public library.

_‘System, is my parseltongue ability a side-effect of the Horcrux?’_ I was curious about that.

**[No. The Player has inherited the Parselmouth gene from both the host body’s parents]**

Uh.

That’s interesting. And useful.

_‘System,’_ I recalled something. _‘If I have the parselmouth gene, does it mean that I can control the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets?’_

Also, what a terrible name for a chamber. Especially when it was located underneath the girl’s bathroom.

**[No. The Player may have the ability to communicate with snakes and snake-tongued reptiles, but the Player is not the Heir of Slytherin]**

That being Voldemort.

But now that the System mentioned it…

_‘System, what creatures are able to understand parseltongue?’_

There was never a thing such as useless knowledge.

* * *

The Hogwarts letter arrived at my window in the early hours of the morning.

I glared at the owl with all the self-righteousness if a pre-teen unceremoniously awoke by tap-tapping at the window beside their bed.

I shoved my square-rimmed glasses on my face before pushing the covers back and getting up, yawning, and opening the window.

“Couldn’t you have waited like, another hour or so before waking me up?” I grumbled. “It’s not even seven am yet, not even post offices work this early.”

The owl presents its leg to me with a huff.

I release the letter and watch the owl fly out of the window, possibly to go catch some poor critter to eat.

I looked at the letter in my hand, the envelope was made of parchment and it felt courser than regular paper.

The front read “Mr. H. Potter; Smallest bedroom, Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging Surrey”, in forest green ink.

The red Hogwarts seal on the back held the envelope shut.

I sat at my desk and carefully peeled it open, taking the contents out. There were two letters inside.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_

_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

_Minerva McGonagall_

Deputy Headmistress

I had to admit, it was a nice letter. And if I were anyone else but the lucky bastard that got saddled with the title ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived’ I’d probably be very excited - or very confused - about receiving this letter.

The second letter contained all of the requirements in terms of school books and uniform.

Without thinking too hard about it, I plucked a blank sheet of paper and carefully cut a precise section off of it, writing “I have read my letter and will be there when the term starts. But may I inquire where I may find my school materials? H. J. Potter”

And folded the rest of the blank sheet of paper into an envelope, using duct tape to close it.

The moment I had finished doing so the owl returned and presented its leg to me again.

“Well, at least you’re an efficient worker. I’ll try to remember to keep treats or something you can eat at hand the next time I’m expecting an owl to arrive,” I say as I carefully tie the new letter to its leg.

The owl thrills before flying off.

I watched it leave before closing the window with a yawn. It was closer to seven am now and I knew Petunia was going to be waking up soon, so if I wanted to shower in peace, I should do it now.

I grabbed a change of clothes and made sure the door was locked behind me before heading downstairs to the bathroom.

I locked that door behind me, and turned on the water. As I waited for it to heat up I looked at my reflection.

When I had first arrived in this world this body was tiny and thin, pale white because of the lack of sun, and a mess of hair that gave hairdressers nightmares.

Eight years later, things were different. I wasn’t very tall, but I was certainly taller than I’d have been had I stayed with the Dursley’s meal plan for me. And I wasn’t pale.

I spent as much time as I could out of this house, so I’d gotten sunburnt enough times to have developed a more natural skin tone. Soft cream and with freckles on the bridge of my nose and cheeks. The freckles extended to the top of my shoulders and upper back because of all the time I had spent shirtless in the hot summer months napping in the forest.

Marsha had laughed when I had told her about them, they weren’t as visible in the winter as they were in the summer but if you knew where to look you would be able to spot one or two remaining.

Honestly, I hadn’t thought I’d get freckles. But they felt natural on me. Something that distinguished me from the ‘Harry Potter’ from “Before”.

I wasn’t skinny either. Thin, perhaps, or lean, I guess you could say. But you couldn’t see any ribs or protruding hip bones. I had a nice forming muscle tone in my legs due to all my running too, which was nice.

But the main difference was my hair. Since it was a wild mess and would not stay down if it was short, sticking out whichever way possible, I had decided to let it grow.

Marsha had long hair and she had been excited to get to play with mine once it grew to my shoulders. She taught me several hairstyles that I could put it up in when I didn’t want it getting in my face.

The school teachers had made a face when they noticed the growing length but apart from asking why I was letting it grow and listening to Petunia’s whinging about ‘the beast’ that I was turning into - and didn’t that say something about the upbringing they were giving me? clearly they were failing at combating my ‘bad genes’ with their _excellent_ parenting - they let me do whatever I wanted with it.

And it didn’t look bad. The hair was naturally more wavy than wildly untameable once it grew a certain length and the strands weighed themselves down. And it wasn’t like I let it grow down my back, just past my shoulders. Enough that I could put it into a ponytail, or bun, or braid comfortably.

Enough self-appreciation and ego stroking done, I removed my pajamas and walked under the water spray.

The only downsides to having long hair was the time it took to wash it and the fact that it was so thick it took a long time to dry naturally.

I was extremely grateful to learn that there was a fairly simple spell to magically dry hair in a way that it wouldn’t look like an electrical current had run through it.

After getting out of the shower and drying my hair, I put on my clothes. A soft violet button up shirt and grey jeans, I put some socks on so I didn’t walk upstairs barefoot.

I opened the door and immediately spotted Petunia scowling at me from the kitchen, I cheerfully - and spitefully - waved at her before walking back upstairs.

I placed the pajamas inside a basket at the foot of my bed, there was a public laundry place not too far from the Mayford sight, which was where I had learnt about it from, and I’d wash my own clothing there once it was full. Exceptions were made for the bed-sheets.

I went into my closet and put on my sneakers. I packed two water bottles and a few energy bars inside my backpack - which was starting to get a bit too worn - before putting it on my back and heading out. I plucked an apple from the fruit basket by the kitchen counter before walking out the front of Number 4 Privet Drive.

I started walking towards my forest clearing before picking up the pace into a fast walk and once my body had warmed up a bit, then I started to run.

This was my morning ritual, the destination was the only ever detail that changed.

I got to the clearing and set my backpack down and proceeded to do a few cool down exercises. Then I started a series of stretches which Marsha’s family had taught me, and then some that I knew from my time as a stunt actor.

Afterwards I plopped down on the ground and downed one of the water bottles and ate my energy bars before savoring the second water bottle.

I reviewed what I vaguely knew would happen. Already I had changed something major by replying to the letter instead of having the house flooded with them, plus if I did not mention the letter to Petunia or Vernon there would be no reason for them to decide to move about in an attempt to prevent me from going to Hogwarts.

I bet Petunia was going to try her hand at sending me to Stonewall, and I couldn’t wait for the fallout of that decision. Forget being laughed at behind her back by everyone who knew it was her son who was the scoundrel and a liar and not her nephew, who people saw as quirky but otherwise a polite and disciplined youth; the Dursleys would be the talk of the town by sending their prodigy nephew to a school known to break the spirits of the students - which were mostly made of juvenile criminals.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall when they proudly mentioned that to someone.

But anyway, now I was going to expect someone to come by and take me to Diagon Alley, which might very well be Hagrid if Dumbledore wanted to entice me with the Philosopher’s Stone.

Which, speaking of…

_‘System, is the Philosopher's Stone going to be hidden at Hogwarts the real thing?’_

**[Yes. The Philosopher’s Stone currently in Vault 713 is the real Philosopher’s Stone made by Nicholas Flamel in the 14th century]**

Interesting.

But I guess to spring a trap on Voldemort one would need a sufficiently good bait. Too bad that I expected to be able to remove the damn thing and toss it in the ruddy Black Lake before Quirrell decided to reach it. Not that he’d be able to get it out of that mirror after Dumbledore cast its enchantment on it.

Well, nothing to do about it.

After resting I decided to practice some of the more offensive spells that I had learnt, ones that I wasn’t entirely sure of their success since they required targets.

But I assumed I was on the right track when they stopped exploding in my face.

* * *

Two days later the Dursleys are greeted with a mountain of a man knocking - more like attempting to break through the wood with his fists alone - and happily saying he was here to see “Harry Potter”.

Dudley had been the unfortunate victim to open the door that day and he’d screamed very loud when he saw who it was on the other side.

I had been drinking a glass of milk - and staunchly eating at the table like a _normal_ human being just to prove that I could and that Vernon would seriously regret trying to remove me - so I inhaled a lungful and spent the next ten minutes coughing and laughing at the same time as Hagrid attempted to apologize to the Dursleys for his sudden appearance.

“That boy is not going to that freak school!” Petunia yelled at him.

“Freak school? Why Hogwarts is the finest wizarding school in the world!” Hagrid told her, very offended.

A lie, Hogwarts' ranking had been dropping lower and lower in the ICW ranking of magical schools ever since Albus Dumbledore started cutting into the original curriculum.

Two dark lords one after another also didn’t help matters, since they cut into the already admittedly small population of british wizards and witches, leading for certain classes and knowledge to disappear as there either was little interest in them or no one who could pass it on anymore.

Well, I guess I could learn it, if I got enough key points to ask the System about, enough to put something together that could be explored.

But I already had enough on my plate. _Maybe_ if I got bored throughout the year.

“He’s not going!” Petunia shrieked.

“Well, the Headmaster has sent me here to take young Harry shopping for his school materials so that’s what we’ll be doing!” Hagrid rebuffed her, turning to look at me for the first time.

He blinks.

“ _Merlin’s_ _beard_ ,” He gasps. “You look just like your mother, except you have your father’s hair color. Ah, but you have her eyes,” He tells me.

I startle. Not having expected that.

I looked like Lily?

“I look like her?” I blinked at him.

“You certainly do! She had long hair just like yours, wavy too!” Hagrid nods quickly. “You have her eyes, that’s for sure. Lily’s eyes.”

He suddenly tears up.

“Ah, last time I saw you you were just a tiny babe, could fit in the palm of my hand,” He sobs. “You’ve grown up, Harry.”

“Jamie,” I correct him. “I prefer Jamie.”

Hagrid agrees without thinking twice, “Jamie! Good name, after your father! Spent my years chasing him and his friends out of the Forbidden Forest, I did.”

Petunia seems to be torn between going pale white or tomato red. I spare her the trouble of having an early stroke - see, aren’t I the _kindest_ nephew you could have? - and gesture Hagrid to walk out the door, following behind him.

“How are we getting my school materials?” I ask him, trying to get the conversation steered onward.

“Ah! We’re going to Diagon Alley, that’s where everyone gets their Hogwarts materials from,” He answers. “We’ll take the bike and head towards the Leaky Caldron, that’s where the entrance to Diagon Alley is,” He explains.

“That sounds interesting,” I smile at him.

His eyes mist over, “Just like Lily,” He murmurs.

Would my apparent resemblance to Lily be a good or bad thing?

Dumbledore was expecting me to be a replica of my father in terms of looks, but instead he was getting the other parent. Which I didn’t mind, Lily had apparently been the more sensible of the two, and she had died sacrificing herself for this body.

Or, well, she sacrificed herself for her son, who wasn’t here anymore since he probably died falling out of that tree when he was three years old.

Also, would this make Snape more or less likely to hate me?

“Ah, here we go,” Hagrid points at a sidecar motorbike. “Here,” He hands me a helmet and goggles. “Put those one,” He says and gets on the bike’s seat.

I get in the sidecar and put on the helmet, having to remove my glasses to put on the goggles.

The minute the engine starts rumblings we’re off.

The wind blew the hair falling down my shoulders back and I settled into the seat, tightly holding onto the sides of the car.

Still, I couldn’t help but cackle as we sped off out of Surrey, towards London.

I couldn’t wait to have my own motorbike. It’d be awesome.

* * *

For an entrance to the magical shopping district which families, children and teenagers had to regularly use to get in and out of it, the Leaky Caldron wasn’t that… pretty.

In terms of appearance and ambient, the barkeep Tom seemed like a friendly bloke if he wasn’t so enamored with the idea of having “The Harry Potter” inside his pub.

Honestly, if Hagrid hadn’t spilled the beans about who I was I highly doubted they'd have guessed my identity.

When thinking about it logically, with my long hair and gender-neutral clothing - I was wearing a cotton sweater with pac-man characters on it and had jeans on, with my usual sneakers - I guess I did make a passing impression of a young girl.

Until I spoke, the ruse would be maintained. Jamie could be used by girls also, I guess?

Marsha was going to love hearing about this during the winter holidays.

Because it was the 26th of July and not the 31st we didn’t encounter Quirrell at the pub. Instead, after much bowing and scraping, Hagrid finally opened the entrance to Diagon Alley.

It was… something alright.

Messy, with all sorts of oddly dressed - heh, guess I’d fit right in - people with extremely colorful and random styles of clothing, followed by the usual cacophony of a shopping district.

I liked it.

As I predicted, with Hagrid calling me “Young Jamie” instead of “Young Harry” and with my looks no one looked twice at me.

I thanked my foresight for deciding to grow out my hair and Marsha for teaching me how to care for long hair.

“First we’ll go to Gringotts,” Hagrid says, “You’re going to need money to buy your school supplies.”

“Okay, is that Gringotts over there?” I point at the big white building with the two goblin guards keeping watch at the door.

“Ay,” Hagrid nods. “Those are goblins, nasty folk but they’re unbeatable when it comes to accounting.”

That’s because wizards and witches are lazy and entirely backwards when it comes to modern times, plus the goblins would utterly eradicate you if you tried to take the gold away from them.

I hum, showing that I was listening.

Hagrid kept talking but I only kept half an ear on him, focused on the new world around me. I read the warning above the door and knowing what I knew about the goblins, I had to respect them for giving a fairly obvious and public warning to any would-be thieves.

Though, being the devil’s advocate here, by having the warning so obvious and out in the open it gave them the excuse that any thief is clearly too stupid for you to wish to keep his DNA in the gene pool.

We enter the building and all I see are small ugly creatures counting coins and checking over gemstones.

Truly, the sort of work a kleptomaniac would find as the definition to the word ‘temptation’.

“We’re here today to withdraw some coins from Mr. Potter’s vault,” Hagrid tells the teller. “Oh! And, uh… also here to withdraw you-know-what from vault 713,” Hagrid hushedly adds as he slips the teller a parchment note.

The teller looks over the counter down at me and sneers.

“And does Mister Potter have his vault key?” The teller asks.

“Oh! I have it here,” Hagrid says. “Just lemme find it…” And starts searching all his pockets, removing several items that has the teller regretting doing his job professionally.

“Here it is!” Hagrid shows a golden key to the teller.

The teller takes it. “Everything seems to be in order, Griphook will take you down to the vaults.”

“May I hold my key?” I ask Hagrid as he takes it back.

Hagrid, simple soul that he is - and which I will take advantage of, sue me - promptly hands me the key. “Hold it tightly now, it’s very important!” He tells me.

I nod at him with a grin, “I won’t drop it, I promise.”

Even if I did, I could just summon it back, it was definitely smaller than a football. But I only held it for a moment before placing it inside my wallet in my jeans.

It was _my_ vault key and I appreciated having it in _my_ hands and no one else’s.

The mine-cart ride, though expected, was certainly an experience. One that I loved and already wished to repeat.

As they opened my vault and I saw the huge pile of gold inside I whistled. There were a lot of shinnies.

Griphook explained the conversion of the galleon to pound and exactly how much each coin was worth, but - again - I only listened with a half-ear. I placed more money than I’d probably need inside a pouch they handed me, but I also planned on returning here with a more reliable disguise - and by that I mean something pink or girly enough that no one would look twice at me for wearing a hat to cover the scar - because I had business to attend to here and Dumbledore wouldn’t notice me slipping away to Diagon Alley unless someone snitched.

After we walked out of Gringotts Hagrid was feeling too queasy, so I went ahead to have my uniform made.

Surprisingly, I catch Draco inside. I thought he would only be here on the 31st?

“Hello, dear,” The seamstress smiles at me, “Off to Hogwarts I assume?”

“Yes,” I answer her and she blinks, clearly another person who thought I was a girl at first glance.

Should I be offended?

“Well, step right up, dear, and stand perfectly still,” She instructs me.

“Hello,” The platinum blond boy speaks first, after analyzing my clothes and hair.

“Hello,” I nod at him as much as I can with the seamstress taking measurements.

“My name is Draco, I’m going to be a first year at Hogwarts,” He said. And his voice did have a natural arrogant undertone to it.

“I’m Jamie, I’m also going to be a first year,” I replied.

“What house do you think you’re going to be sorted into? I would disown myself if I ended up somewhere like Hufflepuff!” He sneers.

“Well… I haven’t given it much thought. Perhaps Ravenclaw?” I hum.

“Slytherin is the best house,” Draco tells me. “Both my parents went there, where did yours go?”

“Gryffindor, I believe,” I answer.

Draco sneers a bit more. “Oh,” Is all he says.

I give him a rueful grin, “That’s why I said Ravenclaw,” I chuckle.

Draco looks bemused despite his contempt. “Yes, well, anything is better than _Gryffindor_.”

Before I have to think anything in response to that, a platinum haired man accompanied by a woman with dark hair highlighted in platinum.

“Are you not done yet?” The man scowled.

“It’s nearly done, Lord Malfoy, just a few more touches,” The seamstress answers him.

“How are you darling Draco?” The woman comes over to us. She doesn’t spare me a glance.

“I’m fine, mother,” Draco sounds petulant. “I was talking to Jamie,” He points at me.

Narcissa finally looks at me and falters.

Her mask cracks a bit on the edges, her eyes widening, before she brings her expression back under control.

“What is your name?” She asks me.

“I’m Jamie, Ma’am,” I tell her. “Harry James Potter, but I go by Jamie,” I clarify, resigned.

Draco stares at me wide-eyed.

“You’re the Ha-” He starts.

“ _Jamie!_ ” I stop him. Giving him a _Look_.

Draco looks offended.

“Everyone goes crazy when they hear the name,” I tell him. “Bad enough they start mentioning the scar,” I grumble.

“You defe-” He scowls.

“My _mother_ did something, I was a _baby_ ,” I scowled at him back. “I don’t even remember them.”

“Well,” Narcissa interrupts us, her eyes never leaving me, surprised about something beyond belief.

The resemblance to my mother instead of my father?

“Here’s your order, Lord Malfoy,” The seamstress stops any further conversation.

“That’s us, dear, let's be off. You can see… _Jamie_ … again on the train,” Narcissa gently, but firmly, pulls Draco away.

Well, that was certainly interesting.

“Now, let us take care of your uniform,” The seamstress turns to me. “Am I correct in assuming that it’s a male uniform?”

My lips twitch in amusement, “Yes, Ma’am.”

She nods, “This will only take a few minutes, please stand straight and don’t move off the stand,” She tells me.

The instructions are easy to comply with.

After having that done and carrying the bundles in my arms I step out of the store to find Hagrid standing there with an owl.

A pure white owl.

**Hedwig.**

“Here, Jamie,” Hagrid hands me the cage. “Every wizard needs an owl!”

“Thank you, Hagrid,” I smile at him. “She’s beautiful!” And she is, snowy white feathers with brown spots on them, and big golden eyes.

“S’no trouble,” Hagrid beams. “You can use owls to send letters to your friends,” He tells me.

**_Marsha_ ** **.**

My smile widens even as I look up from the owl at Hagrid again, “Thank you, really, it’s an amazing gift, Hagrid!”

Hagrid looks positively tickled with joy.

“Now, what should we go buy next?” He asks me.

“How about the trunk? So we don’t have to carry all the bags around?” I suggest, eyeing the cage and my uniform bundles.

“Ah, yes, yes,” Hagrid nods. “Off to the trunk store then!” He starts leading us away.

Our shopping trip continued without any mention-worthy hiccups. I got a more than just the standard school trunk, as I requested it to have several compartments - citing that, if it was meant to last me seven whole years of schooling, then it had to have space for my materials as I grew older - which cost me a bit more, but that was why I had brought extra coins.

And a trunk was something I was willing to splurge a bit on. I wanted it to be able to lock individual compartments using passwords - parseltongue was something I would exploit as it became convenient - whilst also locking the trunk as a whole.

I was going to sleep in a dorm and I wouldn’t complain, but _no one_ touched my possessions without my permission.

Then we went to the bookstore and I only got my school books but certainly mentally marked down a couple of others to come pick up later.

Which was followed by buying the cauldron, the potion ingredients and all other odd assortments of supplies, including ink and parchment.

Finally, there was only the wand left.

“You go on inside, Jamie,” Hagrid sends me off. “I’ll stay here with the things,” He explains.

I nod and enter the store.

The air feels charged with electricity. Odd.

“Ah, Harry Potter,” A man comes out from behind a shelf packed with tiny wand boxes. “I had a feeling you’d come to my store today.”

Well, your feelings might need some tuning up if you can’t tell that I am _not_ , in fact, Harry Potter.

“I prefer Jamie,” I tell him, coming closer to the counter.

“I sold both your parents wands, yes,” He continues, seemingly ignoring my words.

Similarly, I ignore his.

It’s only when he thrusts wands into my hands that I start paying attention.

A lot of things go ‘boom’ in the next couple of hours, Hagrid must be bored to tears outside, and I feel like sighing.

“Perhaps…” The wandmaker, Ollivander, murmurs before going into the back of the store.

He comes back with a rather worn box, “Let us see if this one will work,” He says and opens it. “Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches.”

I take the wand and feel a shiver down my spine, but that’s about it. Something clicked but something else felt wrong.

“Hmm,” Ollivander hums, “Peculiar. The core responds, but the wood does not.”

“What can be done then?” I ask him.

“Let’s try this way,” He says and takes the wand back. He goes behind the counter and pulls out a long slim box. He opens it on the table.

Inside there’s various wooden blocks.

“Stroke your fingers over the wood, we shall see if you find a suitable replacement for the Holly,” He instructs me.

I do as he says.

As my fingers touch a soft and smooth light colored block something inside me throbs.

“Aah,” Ollivander nods, “Pine, _of course_.”

“What is so special about Pine?” I ask, still feeling echoes of the woods' reaction to me.

“Independent and mysterious, this wood favors masters who are creative and intriguing,” The wandmaker replies. “I can insert the phoenix feather core inside a pine wand,” He tells me.

And then disappears back into the depths of his store, leaving me alone with the wooden blocks.

His mistake.

I prod the wooden block again, feel the throb in my chest, and try to figure out exactly what is reacting to it.

My heart? My soul?

I don’t know. It resonates with something within me but I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what.

I press down on the wood and something flickers behind my eyes. A hint of purple.

The barest hint of annoyance.

I stop my exploration of the wood.

“If you didn’t like it you could’ve just said so,” I mutter to myself.

“Woods are temperamental, Mr Potter, you’d do well to remember that,” The wandmaker returns out of nowhere, giving me a stern look.

I don’t reply to him back, he probably wouldn’t enjoy being told ‘well, you’re the one who left them out in the open with me’.

He hands me the new wand and I take it. The second it touches my skin I know that this is my wand. Mine and only mine.

It lights up and spreads multicolored sparks across the room. Warmth and something more curls around me.

“Curious, very curious,” Ollivander says.

“What’s curious?” I ask him.

“The phoenix that gave that feather has only ever given another,” He says. “And I’m afraid, Mr Potter, that the wand that received the other feather was the same wand that left your scar.”

I glance back at him, with an unreadable expression.

“You-Know-Who did terrible things. Terrible but great things,” He tells me.

“How much is the wand?” I ask him, pointedly not touching _that_ topic.

“That’ll be seven galleons,” The wandmaker replies, not at all bothered by the obvious subject change.

I pay him and leave the store. Hopefully I’d never have to return here again.

“Ah! Finally done, then?” Hagrid smiles at me.

“I’m sorry Hagrid! It took forever to find a wand,” I told him.

“Ah, s’okay, Jamie!” Hagrid pats me on the back, almost sending me sprawling down onto the ground, “Wands are picky little things. What is yours then?”

“Pine, phoenix feather, eleven inches, I believe,” I answered him, showing him the smooth varnished wand.

“Eeh, that one is a beauty,” Hagrid peers down at it. “Very good wand, you best take good care of it now,” He tells me.

He’s being kind of patronizing, but I can’t really dislike him for it. He’s been getting teary and reminiscing ever since he saw me for the first time in Privet Drive.

I beam up at him, “I will, Hagrid!” Before turning to coo at Hedwig. She really was a beauty.

“Just like Lily,” I hear the half-giant murmur again.

We head back to the Dursleys house.

* * *

Up in my bedroom, door locked and defiantly ignoring Vernon’s yells from the other side, I painstakingly start removing everything from my trunk onto my bed so I can sort things properly and neatly.

Hedwig is out of her cage and seems to have liked the top of my closet as nest-potential.

The Dursleys had tried to get my trunk locked in the cupboard under the stairs but I had pointed my new wand at them and simply said “You recall what I can do without one, do you really want to find out how much stronger it will be now?”

They let me up the stairs without a fuss, before Vernon came thumping up the stairs to try and ‘lay down the rules’ about ‘wand waving and freakishness’ in his home.

Honestly, there was only one more month before I could leave for Hogwarts - and despite me knowing what I’ll face there, anywhere’s better than staying _here_ \- and I’d be gone for nine-ish months, they should be glad that I’m leaving so soon.

After taking everything out, I start organizing things, making a list on a spare piece of paper of anything extra that I need to add, magical or mundane - because there was no way in how that I wasn’t taking my spiral-notebooks and pens - in my following trips to Diagon Alley.

I dutifully put away my uniform in one compartment, where my clothes would join it - the System had informed me that students were allowed to wear their own clothing on weekends outside of class - once August ended.

Then I placed the parchment and quills plus the ink bottles, my mundane stationary would join them later. My second to last compartment was where I placed all my potion ingredients and tools. The main compartment of the trunk - and the biggest - was where all my books and notebooks would go.

I was very happy with the way it turned out. I maneuvered the trunk to stand where I had thought to place a bookcase, all my books were evaluated about whether or not I brought them with me, and I placed a few novels inside, mostly to have an excuse to be anti-social.

After all that was done I left the trunk open so that I could take out and put in books as I finished reading them.

There was a little over a month left before September 1st, and I was going to make the most of it.

I sighed and laid down on my bed, picking up my wand from my bedside table and staring at it.

Why did the wand change?

Why did the holly wood not respond?

Was it because I am not Harry Potter?

And what was it that sang in response to it?

I contemplated asking the System, but I let the matter drop.

I had a feeling that I wouldn’t like the answer to those questions.

And despite having the shittiest luck, I trusted my gut instincts.

~~(I mean… Finding out about the mafia and the dying will flames at eleven would’ve probably been a little too much. I’d have probably cursed up a storm in such a manner that Petunia would drop her fear of angering me just to wash my mouth out with soap!)~~

* * *

End Arc I - Recrudescence

_Some have fought battles in fields full of cattle_

_and some have waged war out at sea_

_Some in militias and some with malicious intent_

_some men just want to be_

_Free from oppression and so their aggression_

_is worn like a badge on their sleeve_

_Some have fought battles from desks in Seattle_

_And some have waged war on the street_

Guess this is the hill I will die on 

I woke up this morning put my suit and tie on

Walked down to the bus that I ride on

The air felt so still

I guess this is the hill

I guess this is the Will I will write on

the back of this bill with my pen as my quill

and hope you'll still love me when I'm gone

The air felt so still

I guess this is the hill I will die on

_Some fight with rifles and some use the Bible_

_And some use a shield and a knife_

_Some author libel which sometimes goes viral_

_And ruins an innocent life_

_leaves an impression teaches no lesson and leads_

_to regression and strife_

_Some fight to stifle and some cause its primal_

_And some cause they’re sure that they’re right_

“The Hill I will Die On” - Alec Benjamin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey! I hoped you enjoyed THD so far! This is the End of Arc I, so we'll take a break for a bit while I write and compose Arc II before starting to update again (I also cannot neglect AGF)
> 
> End of Arcs are probably the only chapters that'll be guaranteed to have author's note, though I might make an exception in some.
> 
> So! Important things to note about this Arc that I've obviously not touched upon (that you've witnessed):  
>  \- Cordelia. That and 'Lilith's Child', we will get back to this, but later. Much later.
> 
> \- Just how much Jamie is aware of the future. He has plans. And plans on top of plans. But just how far those plans go? *shrugs*
> 
> \- His rune and arithmancy (plus a smattering of other wandless subjects), they'll start cropping up when Jamie gets his hands on actual rune books and makes sure he's not about to blast himself into smithereens. He may -instinctively- be aware that something *should* work, but he's not taking any risks. Or unfavorable risks, I guess.
> 
> \- How much Jamie has learnt (in terms of skills and general knowledge) from the System? A lot. If you have wondered about it at least once, Jamie has asked the System about it.
> 
> \- His resemblance to Lily. I was not planning on this initially, but then I googled pictures of young Lily and their hair (despite being red, whilst Jamie's is really dark) is identical in THD - the only difference is that Jamie's just go over his shoulders, the tips of his hair brush against his upper back, but that's about it; whilst Lily had really long hair.  
>  And it was funny because I zoomed in on that picture *after* I had decided to give Jamie freckles - spending so much time in the sunlight has to have some effect on his previously pasty-pale self - I noticed that the Lily picture I selected showed freckles in the exact same places I chose for Jamie.  
>  So yes, Jamie looks much more like Lily (with James' coloring, except for the eyes) and that will through a wrench in some Dumbledore's plans (can you guess which?)
> 
> \- Why Narcissa internally freaked out? I don't really have many plans or plot points that I am eagerly hoarding to myself (I have some, but they're mostly KHR related), so I don't really saying it now. (It's not even going to appear again until Arc III or so, so you'll probably forget I mentioned this anyway XD)  
>  James Potter's parents are (on the wikia, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, but who cares about what the wikia says, it's my fic!) Charlus Potter and Dorea Potter (neé Black).  
>  And that's where the magic happens. I have this idea that Lily's genes somehow softened James', so while Jamie (who had Harry Potter's body, but I cannot bring myself to refer to Jamie as their son) does have James' facial features, they are just a degree more polished than his.  
>  So he looks closer to his Black heritage than the Potter one. Coupled with the long hair, he looks a bit androgynous at first glance (that'll change, kids are fairly androgynous before puberty, Jamie will grow into his body)  
>  So Narcissa was just stumped because she thought the Blacks were all gone, and then she gets blindsided that this is Harry Potter (and all those genealogical lessons come to the forefront of her mind, like it or not, they're related, and it shows)
> 
> Here's the picture I used as reference. Not sure if you can click on it and zoom it, but she does have freckles, and the wavy hair is nigh identical - just ginger and too long.
> 
> Before I forget! The scar!  
>  In the magical world, Jamie will try to keep it as hidden as possible, if he has to wear a hat or a cap to do so, he will (or slap a band-aid on it, there's pretty colorful ones -might take myself up on that suggestion, thanks brain-) but in the muggle world he doesn't really care its visible, so he usually has his hair either falling to the side(s) or pinned back.


End file.
